


Full Stops and Exclamation Marks

by TheSaintRyan



Category: Life with Derek
Genre: 2nd Person, Alternate Universe, Angst, Band, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Derek Venturi, Canon Compliant, College, Dasey - Freeform, Depression, Derek-centric, F/M, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Step-siblings, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Trans Character, Trauma, Underage Drinking, Weed Smoking, past suicide attempt- referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7683352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaintRyan/pseuds/TheSaintRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think at first that maybe you're King Midas-- cursed to have your desire but only at the cost of everything that actually matters-- but that's not true.  You aren't Midas; you're Lot's wife.  So mired in hindsight that you miss your chance at freedom and happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. RAGE

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I've been working on this for a while, and realized it's going to be a long work so I figured that I have it split into five parts anyway so I'll just post it as it's done! Never really done the chaptered work thing too much but I hope Dasey fans appreciate this and are willing to wait it out. I want to credit a lot of my getting back into this fandom, and fanfic writing in general, to unoriginal_liz and her epic 'Unhappily Ever After' as well as Ashley Leggat and Michael Seater, obviously.
> 
> This story is centered on Derek Venturi and uses the 2nd Person. It includes references to depression and a previous suicide attempt, as well as frank language used about sexual activity. I promise it has a happy ending though.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy!

Your mother left you before her father left her. For some reason you’ve always felt a nagging sense of scorn about it—a completely illogical fault but, once found, one you could at least hold on to regardless of circumstances. It’s morning, and you’re lying in bed and resolutely putting off getting ready. You can hear the shower running through the thin walls of your room and even though you aren’t fifteen any more the knowledge of who is in there makes you flush hot and kick off your blankets.

Goosebumps rise all along your skin, down your arms and across your chest and down your legs. It still doesn’t bring you relief and a chill runs up your spine; your blush is spreading splotchy down your chest and you hate it, that she has such an effect on you but no matter how hard you try you can’t seem to get to her.

It’s your senior year and, in fact, your last month as a high school student. This knowledge should be great news but there is a lingering dread that settled over you last summer and hasn’t yet lifted. Everyone keeps using words for how this year is supposed to feel; transformative and fantastic and nostalgic, but the only word coming to your mind is ‘final.’ And you know, you know that realistically not much will change. That there’s still months of summer between you and college and that even still you both got accepted to Queens—news she met with a grim and tight-lipped smile—so it isn’t like you’ll be too far apart. Something still feels like it’s coming to a close and you aren’t sure you want it to.

By now your skin has returned to its customary olive and the patch of hair down your torso is no longer marred by splotchy red. The shower switches off. With a sigh, you pull yourself up out of bed, pulling shorts on over your underwear, and head out into the hall just as she leaves the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Your eyes meet, for a second, and static jolts through your body. You must have visibly flinched because she averts her eyes at the same moment and, without a word, heads to her room. Your shower is short and perfunctory—punctuated only by a short and mostly angry jerk off.

Your room is cold. This isn’t a surprise, you’ve kept it cold all year, but it always hits you hardest after the scalding showers you’ve taken to. Now your skin is red again. You dress quickly.

Downstairs, it’s just her still home. She’s sitting at the table and eating cereal like she has thousands of times before, and you join her quietly. “Are we gonna talk,” she says, “or just stare at our breakfast?”

“It’s all the same to me,” you answer. She shakes her head, eyes rising to meet yours in a dare. Minutes pass in silence, and finally she says, “we’d better go. Don’t want to be late.” You’re still trying to figure out what to say, angry that she’s still the only one who can render you speechless. You follow her, backpack haphazard over one shoulder, and open the passenger door of the Prince for her. Since you turned sixteen first George gave it to you but only on the condition that you give her rides. Not that you minded back then. At sixteen it was all hormones and desperation that led you two to the backseat on more than one occasion and in more than one isolated parking lot.

It was then, back even before the bruises in backseats in summers and before anything had ever been made vicious or jealous or cruel between you, that you realized you loved her. Even before that, though, you were already confused. Stricken by her on first site. When she showed up in your life…

At fourteen you had it all. You were popular, a notorious lady killer, and completely sure of yourself. You’d been the first guy in your grade to make it anywhere past kissing a girl and it earned you a solid place at the top of the heap. But since she and her family moved in, once she gave you a shy smile and said, “I’m Casey,” you’ve been lost. No girls made much of an impression, after her, and that should have been a sign. She became such a clear counterpoint that your life seems to be split into two halves—before and after meeting Casey McDonald. Immediately you could feel the pull, the magnetism, drawing you together and felt that you were linked. A long year spent orbiting each other, drawing closer and closer until meeting, explosively, at last. That came later though. At first you thought you could hardly stand her but then, you thought, why can’t I stop thinking about her? Why would you lie awake imagining the delicate hairpin of her smile and the smooth swell of her breasts, your hand fisted down your shorts and biting out the name on your lips. Why would you put yourself through so much guilt, threatening to swallow you whole and all the while your heart pounding in your chest and your mind rife with torturous thoughts?

You feel foolish, driving on autopilot with her silently fuming across the width of the car and all the while you wax philosophic about your short and sordid history. One year spent teasing and prodding at each other, falling into a comfortable push and pull. One year wasted. Your thoughts keep you occupied until you’re pulling in to the school parking lot. You’ve no sooner turned off the Prince before Casey is out the door and walking towards her class in a huff. Figures, you can manage to piss her off without even having to say anything.

You hit the steering wheel in frustration, saying “Fuck!” and slamming your palm down repeatedly. You dig your pack out of your backpack and light up a cigarette, smoking hurriedly before class starts. Taking angry huffs of smoke it isn’t long before you hit filter and pull out the ashtray, stubbing out the ember and feeling hope die with it.

Classes are boring, and easy—at this point in the year there’s really nothing to do but finals—and the day passes mostly without incident. Once, the two of you brush against each other in the halls and the shiver that runs down her spine is victory enough to lift your mood for the rest of the day. When she corners you by the Prince after school, backing you up against the door that you went to open for her, and demands that you “just drive,” it feels like a punch to the gut. When you drive in silence for twenty minutes before pulling up in a parking lot your palms are sweaty and your nerves are shot. When she grips into your hair, all pretense of romance long gone, and drags your head over to her for a rough and spiteful kiss you start to bloom, and your lips are just ending their long treck down her body arriving at the tight seam between her legs and her pants are open but not down and you can’t get close enough and even the smell of her- much less the taste- is enough to have you growling out her name and licking a long stripe across the front of her underwear. But then all at once it’s winter and she’s back in her seat and her pants are done up and the frost culls your smile. The drive home is just as silent.

If the rest of your family has noticed the feud they are resolutely remaining uninvolved. Just as well, it’s not like either of you are in a rush to tell them what the past three years have entailed. Of all of them, Marti was the only one to ever broach the subject and even then it was incredibly vague. Two years into your affair and two months into your third and ‘final’ breakup and Marti simply walked into your room one night, and as you hastily wiped at your eyes she wrapped her arms around you and said, simply, “it’s going to work out for the best you know. I can tell you love each other.” You shrugged, morose, and then held onto her like a lifeline while you cried. It felt weird, the roles reversed and your younger sister rubbing your back consoling you. Before leaving she turned to you and said, “depression isn’t a good look on you Derek. I thought we’d all learned that already.” You laughed, an absurd noise bubbling up in your throat, and she closed your door behind her.

You find it almost suspicious that no one else has noticed, or if they have that no one else is getting involved. Dinner is, as always, a tense affair that has everyone going about their business and chatting idly all while giving you the distinct sense that they’re walking on eggshells and quietly avoiding the elephant in the room. At one point Casey says something that’s so obviously a set up for you to tease her, to keep up the pretenses, but it flies right past you and you only notice because everyone—even George and Nora—are looking to you expectantly. You just get up and take your plate to the kitchen, heading silently up to your room.

You wake from a restless slumber to see Casey silhouetted against your open door. She can obviously tell that you’ve woken up, because she takes a few tentative steps into your room before closing the door quietly. In the dark you hear her breathing, taking several false starts and finally saying, “are you ok?” It’s a reflex but you still feel bad for laughing bitterly. “Just peachy, princess. Why do you ask?” She’s at your bed and sitting down, now, grabbing your arm and pulling you up so your noses brush each other.

“Don’t bullshit me right now, Derek. Everyone’s starting to worry.” You shrug and hope she knows it, from her deep sigh you think you succeed. Her hand is still on your arm, on your shoulder, and you can feel it becoming heavier with each breath. You lean in and kiss her, once, gently. Then her palm is splayed against your chest, her other hand fisting in your hair and pulling you in hungrily. Then she stops and stands, taking a few steps back in the darkness. “How long were you watching me sleep?” You ask, but there’s no bite to it. You wait out her collecting herself and finally she says, “long enough to know you were having a nightmare.” You lay back down and will her to move—either into your bed or out of your room—and she must, because when you wake up you’re alone.

The week passes in more or less the same fashion; the two of you drowning in the frigid sea of radio silence, the family steadfastly ignoring the issue, even Marti has resumed the increasingly worried looks which preceded your previous encounter with her, and you and Casey bruising each other’s lips and egos at random. To be fair, when you kissed her that night it was the first touch you initiated since your latest and longest-lasting breakup. She just can’t seem to make up her damn mind, breaking things off and then kissing you whenever she’s hungry only to pull back just as suddenly.

You can’t fault her for that. You’re just as addicted as she is, craving the taste of her every hour and you know that she is still in love with you. It’s honestly painful how much you want her. Can’t look at her without craving the sweet taste of her pussy, or the feeling of her quivering around your fingers or your dick. Just looking at her makes you hard and flushed like you’re twelve again. You’d laugh at how pathetic you are, but you don’t know if you’re really capable of humor at this point. You can feel yourself plunging into another depression, worse, you think, than when your mom left. You realize why Marti is worried but you shouldn’t have to tell her again. Last time…

Last time you were young and stupid and you’d told her, laying in a hospital bed with her little hands running slowly across your bandaged wrists that it was a mistake and it won’t happen again. You meant it. You’d promised yourself that you’d never give anyone that much power over you ever again but somehow Casey had just snuck in under the radar and managed to bring you down from the inside without even trying. It makes you feel clownish, how infatuated you are. It makes you feel like a buffoon. Like a child.

School is coming to a close and with it an important chapter of your life. You don’t like not knowing what’s going to happen—have never liked surprises—and that sour feeling of dread is around you like a caul at all times. You wear anxiety like a jacket and regret wraps around your legs like chains.

It was hard, at the beginning, and really it still is. It was hard to sit across from her at the table and eat a meal with your family when all you could picture was the way she looked when you made her cum. Her eyes fluttering open to lock with yours, impossibly dark and pupils blown wide. Her lips parting and chanting your name like it’s a curse and a prayer at the same time, then clamping onto your shoulder and stifling a moan with a bite.

It still is hard, not being able to get over her; not wanting to. And fuck you were both so stupid, doing this in the house, in your bedrooms, everywhere you could. Pure luck kept you from being found out and you loved how uncharacteristically risky she was being.

_By your sixteenth birthday, early in August, you’ve spent just over a year guilt ridden by your feelings for Casey. George officially gives you the Prince but makes you promise to give Casey rides whenever she needs. Predictably, Casey responds by being as demanding as possible, forcing you to give her rides to the mall or the library or the museum ‘Come on Derek you’re already here won’t you just come in with me?’ or to the fucking library AGAIN and it isn’t long before you’ve had it. You spend a full month arguing incessantly over which one needs to use the Prince when and it isn’t until September that you shock her by beginning to acquiesce quietly every time. Once you’ve given up the fight she seems almost timid about asking you, starts taking the bus, and you realize that she enjoyed the arguments. She corners you in your room one evening and demands an explanation._

_“For what?” you ask and she flinches, obviously not having thought the conversation through. “You’re just… You’re acting weird!” she replies and your eyebrows raise toward your hairline. She seems to realize the irony of her accusation and her eyes drop to the floor. You aren’t sure what’s going on but your heart is racing and your hands are trembling and so is your voice when you ask, “what is this really about, Case?” She stares at the ground for a full minute and then raises her eyes to meet yours. “Meet me in the garage later,” she says before turning and walking out. She closes the door behind her and you look at the ceiling and drop backwards on to your bed, mouthing ‘What the fuck was that?’ to yourself before hearing her say “watch your mouth, Derek.” from outside your door. You roll your eyes._

_The garage is cold, your hands are stuffed into the pockets of your sweatshirt until you decide to pull out a cigarette and light up. Casey’s kept you waiting for almost an hour; except, you realize, she never told you a time to meet her. You’re taking turns inhaling smoke and frigid air but it isn’t the off-season chill that’s making you shiver. It seems like all of this with Casey has been building up to something and you can only hope that it’s what you think it is. That she wants you too. You’re still smoking when she opens the garage door, flinching at the smell and saying, “Gross Derek. When did you start smoking?” You shrug. You started at 14, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Don’t I look cool?” You ask sardonically._

_”No. You look stupid. And that’s going to kill you.” She replies; not a trace of humor. “Good.” You say._

_She looks almost stricken when you say it, how casually you say it, and you could swear her eyes flicker down to your wrists but there’s no way she knows. Marti wouldn’t have told her and Edwin wouldn’t have told her and George wouldn’t have told her and you certainly didn’t tell her. Now she’s staring up at the ceiling, staring at the floor, at the Prince; everywhere except you._

_“Have a seat, princess,” you say after putting out your cig, gesturing at the hood of the car that’s yours now, “you wanted to talk? Let’s talk.” She huffs, but obliges you. She’s wearing a light blue sweater, and it keeps riding up. You can see her hipbones and her belly button and when she reaches up to stretch you can see the hem of the cotton panties she’s wearing. You hope you don’t blush. You hope your voice doesn’t shake and you turn your attention resolutely forward and away from her and then you say, “Well, get on with it.”_

_She stares at you for a while, you can see it from your peripheral and you still won’t look at her and then she sighs. She seems to open her mouth to say something but the words keep dying on her lips and you finally turn to look at her and your eyes meet and nothing happens.  
And nothing happens._

_You don’t know what to do—don’t know what this is—and your head is swimming but you haven’t been drinking and your fingers are twitching towards the pack in your pocket but you know if you light up she’ll leave and this seems so close, so precariously on an edge that you can’t let her leave but you don’t know what to say and you’re scared to do anything in case it tips and comes crashing down. “Casey—“ You say at last but then she does the most absurd thing of all time. Casey McDonald says “Oh fuck it!” And then she kisses you. You kiss her back, of course you kiss her back, even if it takes you a second to get over the shock you are kissing her with every ounce of gusto you can muster._

_It seems to last forever and only seconds long somehow simultaneously but then she pulls away, her eyes boring into yours and you’re both breathing heavily—but all you did was kiss!—and then you see her realize what she’s done. You see in her eyes when it hits her that whatever is happening between the two of you, there’s no more deniability, there’s no backtracking from here. So she panics, you can see her starting to panic and you reach out, to put a hand on her shoulder but she flinches and it hurts you so fucking bad that you storm out, lighting a cigarette on your way out the door and lighting seven more before you make it home early in the morning. She’s in bed, everyone’s in bed, or so you think. As you’re closing the front door behind you, George coughs quietly from the living room. He looks mad until he sees your face and the tear tracks down your cheeks and the angry flush to your skin and then he just looks defeated; scared; mourning all over again. You tug the sweatbands up and show him that your wrists are clean—a custom that fell out of practice by the time you were 13—and he seems less sad; now he’s angry though, and he goes to question you but you don’t know what to say and you don’t know what’s going on so you just shrug and laugh bitterly, “Girls, right?” And George seems to understand, on some level, what you mean. So he just echoes your bitter laugh and waves you up the stairs. Your room is cold._

You wake up on Saturday after spending a week lost in nostalgia. You shuffle downstairs with pajama pants slung low around your hips. Casey is sitting at the table, reading. She glances up at you—her eyes meet yours then drift down, following the line of hair down from your belly button and then along your waistband; her eyes shift back to her book but there’s a rigid tension in her posture you hadn’t noticed before. You pour yourself some coffee and take a sip. It’s cold.

“I was thinking about starting a band,” you say while you brew a fresh pot. Casey holds up a finger, finishes the paragraph she’s on, and then chuckles, looking back up at you. “You were what now?” She asks, and you roll your eyes. It seems almost like a return to whatever you two used to call ‘normal.’ You repeat yourself. Casey laughs and then, her eyes a dare, she says, “do it.” She returns to her book. You head back up to your room but something feels different. Something is shifting and you don’t know where. The two of you go back to your usual banter, and the family seems to heave a collective sigh. Tension leaves the household altogether and things are better than they’ve been in a long time.

You blink and it’s Monday. You blink and it’s Monday. You blink and it’s been a few Mondays and now the two of you have graduated. Summer is setting and you and Casey are getting along great. For the most part, things are back to normal. You seem to have reached a truce; you aren’t together again, and you aren’t fucking, but you’re friends. It seems nice, but you know deep down that the two of you were never, and never will be just friends. You can tell that with the two of you it’s all or nothing. For now, though, you seem to be fine. At times it feels precarious, but most of the time you’ve been relaxed and happy in a way you’d almost forgotten about.

You’re sitting in the park. A cigarette is in your right hand but it hasn’t been lit because Casey’s head is in your lap and your left hand is running through her hair and your back is up against a big tree and it’s nice. She’s halfway through her third book of the summer when you decide you’re bored. You grab the book from her and she scrabbles up, shouting “Der-ek” in the way she used too. She reaches out for it and you hold it behind you. She’s smiling and laughing. She leans in again but this time you lean in to meet her. Her smile dies and she shifts back, her lips drawing away from yours. You see her eyes glancing around, assessing the strangers milling about. She stands up and brushes off the back of her skirt. You’re staring at her long legs as she says, “meet me in the garage later,” and walks away. You light your cigarette.

It feels like déjà vu, chainsmoking in the garage and waiting for Casey to show up; this time, though, the garage is stifling hot instead of cold. Even still, you feel frigid air in your lungs. You’re leaned up against the Prince’s hood, stubbing out your fourth cigarette when Casey walks in. She won’t look at you and she’s quiet and you can feel your gut turning into lead. She’s leaning next to you, and it’s so silent your ears are aching. Finally, she says, “Fuck it, wanna get some beer?”

It’s certainly not what you expected, but you’ll definitely take it. You follow her out around the back and head for the little corner store near the park. It’s not quite your birthday yet, but you’ve had a fake ID for years and are no stranger to this particular store. The two of you continue on, sitting again beneath that big tree, and you clank your cans together and swallow. It’s been quiet since you left the house; you aren’t exactly sure what to say since Casey called this meeting. You try to relax but the tension has you shivering in the heat. “I don’t know what to do, Derek,” she says and you can’t help the laugh you choke out.

“That’s your game changing revelation, Case? That we both have no idea what is going on between us, or how to fix it? Did ya miss the memo? We’ve known that since this started, sweetheart.” You can’t help but vent now, after all the build up and anxiety. You finish your beer and grab a new one, handing one to Casey too. She swallows the dregs of hers, making a sour face, and cracks the second. “Look, Case. I don’t know how this is going to turn out. But I love you. I know that. And something else I know is that love is always worth it. Stop fighting this.”

She’s quiet again, but now she’s looking right at you. She’s thinking for a while, and you both keep drinking in the mean time. She makes a few false starts and then collects her self, taking in a deep breath and releasing it in a long sigh. “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever said it to me before.” She says. You feel odd, having finally said everything you’d wanted to, and the entire situation suddenly amazes you. “This is absurd,” you say and then you’re laughing. And she’s laughing. And you keep drinking.

By the time you reach your final two beers the two of you are laying side by side, abs sore from laughter and cheeks wet with tears, brainstorming names for your band. “Full Monty.” You say and Casey laughs, “no that’s terrible,” and you both laugh. “How about Escapism.” She says and you pause, nodding sagely. “Definitely more of an album title,” you say. “You should just name it after a celebrity,” she says.

It’s July, the night is warm and your spirit feels light. The stars are out, but you aren’t looking. You’re walking home with someone you love and your hands are wrapped up together and you remember joy. Inside the house is quiet, and your footsteps sound like cannons. At your door you stop her with a hand, and you lean in and kiss her. Quietly, quickly. And you go to bed. Your room is cold, but your blanket is warm, and your pillows are soft, and you dream about her eyes.


	2. MIRTH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the easy, comfortable place the two of you found yourselves in, Queens is a disaster. You had remained amicable through the whole summer, and through packing as the temperature dropped and fall approached, but it seemed like something had cracked during the move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhhhhhh my gosh I am so sorry that it has taken me an entire, literal year to update this. I had promised myself I wouldn't be that writer but here we are. In any case, I'm extremely pleased with how this is turning out and I can only hope you all will patiently wait out what will surely be a marathon to the conclusion. Added some new tags to go along with this chapter and I will tag for anything requested!
> 
> On a related note; if literally anyone can convince me that Derek Venturi isn't bisexual I will buy you flowers. Seriously, try to convince me. Ain't gonna happen.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> The Sufjan Stevens song referenced is 'All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands'
> 
> All other lyrics present are original.

Despite the easy, comfortable place the two of you found yourselves in, Queens is a disaster. You had remained amicable through the whole summer, and through packing as the temperature dropped and fall approached, but it seemed like something had cracked during the move. Like whatever tether had pulled the two of you together at home had snapped somewhere along the way and left you both confused and bitter. As the summer dragged on you battled with yourself, desperate to talk to Casey and try to define your relationship in this new form but you never did. Would it have helped? Would things have just ended earlier? A long year of frequent silences followed.

You try not to get caught up in the past but it consumes you. Thinking back to the night in the garage. Drinking in the park by the tree. Kissing her goodnight when the rest of the family was asleep. Thinking back to your first time, her eyes open wide and breath escaping as pants. The unanswered questions are swimming in your mind day and night and you torture yourself imagining how things could be different. But they aren’t. Casey is hardly speaking to you and when she does it’s just to fight.

It’s hard; it’s so fucking hard but eventually you push her aside enough that for the most part she’s out of your mind. You focus on your band. You focus on the classes that you actually care about. You focus on chasing pretty girls and rarely getting turned away. You focus on parties and beer and liquor and more girls and more beer. You focus on everything except anything that’s the same shade of blue as her eyes. You start chasing blondes and redheads. It’s two months until you see her again. Your last fight had been her accusing you of following her here, of sabotaging her college career so she’d be stuck with you. Her words had been daggers; you still feel the bruises all this time later.

You’re at a party that the hockey teams are throwing off campus. You’re obviously drunk—vision blurry along the edges and time seeming to slow to a crawl and sprint off ahead of you at random. Still, it’s like a hammer strikes you when you see her across the living room. A tall, blonde guy has his hand on the small of her back. He whispers something into her ear and she laughs, head tipping back and the long lines of her on display but it’s his hands on her. Your face is flushing. Before she can spot you, you’re turning around and fleeing upstairs. The house is big, and you wander down a long hallway. You can hear some rooms—alive with moans and thumps and heat—and one bathroom seems to be occupied by someone throwing up. You turn the corner and a woman is standing at the far end. She’s beautiful; short dark hair framing a pale face. Big, round eyes. She’s tall and lean, probably a dancer. She catches your eye and winks, turns to step into the bathroom but doesn’t move to close the door. Of course you follow.

The room is cold but when her hands run up under your shirt you feel fire trailing them. You shiver when she pulls them back but then she’s fluidly sliding her shirt up over her head and your eyes are full of her perfect tits and you forget to be cold. You forget a lot of things as you push her back onto the counter. Even though you have a great time; Casey is a ghost in the corner of your mind. You cum with the sound of rattling chains in your ears.

The morning is rough, the hangover seeming to ignite your depression and making you more introspective, if possible, than usual. She’s still asleep: Her name is Simone and she’s originally from France. Your assessment was correct, the long lines of her body scream dancer and it turns out she’s already got a degree in dance and is working on one in musical theatre. You leave your number on the nightstand next to her and leave to get some coffee.

This area of Ontario isn't too cold in October, but the wind is biting, whipping off of the lake and cutting through your jacket. There's a cigarette between your chapped lips and the walk is a welcome distraction. In your head you're fighting with a song that's been in limbo for months. You can tell the band is getting frustrated, but the words just won't come out. The coffee shop is busy; you don't even bother trying to fight your way in yet, standing to the side of the door and smoking, finishing your cigarette and lighting another. It's late in the season but next to the window is a single rose stubbornly blooming on its own.

Casey prefers lilies.

The cafe is slowing down and you make your way in. It's still busy, people sitting about chatting and drinking and laughing. You haven't laughed in two months. It isn't until you've placed your order and you're waiting off to the side for your caramel Americano that you see a flash of her. She's walking by outside with that guy; her brown hair flowing behind her in a long pony tail, her eyes twinkling with a smile that seems startled out of her. She seems to consider the coffee shop for a moment, before deciding against it. She laughs at something he says and grabs his arm, dragging him along and out of view. The barista says your name two or three times before tapping you on the shoulder, startling you out of your head. You thank her, grab the coffee, and start walking again.

You find yourself at a park overlooking Lake Ontario. It's colder here, but it doesn't bother you. Looking across the water, you can almost imagine you can see the other shore, can almost see all the way to America. New York. You wonder, not for the first time, why you didn't head somewhere different after high school. Why not New York? Even Toronto would have been better for you, but it's a foolish thought. You know exactly why you only applied to this one school. Why you didn't even try to get away. You would have followed her straight into Hell, you think.

Thinking isn't doing you much good, only drawing old blood and making it fresh, so instead you write. You keep picking and dragging at the song for hours in your head, typing lines and stanzas into your phone.

I was a field of fucking roses  
But then you were the first real frost this winter  
I feel myself growing weaker, starting to wither 

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing, Marti's sweet face smiling out at you. “Hello?” There's a commotion, shuffling, and then a very quiet Marti says,  
“Oh well praise the fates. Smerek actually answered his phone for a change!”

“I'm sorry Smarti,” you laugh, no point arguing- the girl's right- then continue, “I've been busy. Between school and the band...” You trail off and it isn't until Marti clears her throat loudly and says, “couldn't even come up with an entire excuse huh? What's wrong Der?”

“I'll let you know when I figure it out,” you say. You laugh but there isn't any humor in it. Marti sighs, long and weary, “I swear, Smerek, if this is about God damn Casey I'm going to run away, hitch hike to Kingston and kick you in the face.”

You groan. “Geez, Smarts. Where'd you get that mouth from?” You know the answer, and you also know that your little sister is smart enough to recognize deflection. An anguished palm slides down your face and you groan again. “It's not. I don't think. Just some writer's block. Fighting with my next song.”

Marti hums at you absently, like she'd call you on the deflection but she knows it's a lost cause. After a long moment she says, “when are you going to come home and see us?” You can hear the way her voice goes thin, the way she's trying to sound less upset than she is but it's only making you feel worse; more guilt, more depression, more self-loathing, more loneliness, more pain. “Soon.” You choke out, before quickly making an excuse to get off the phone. It does nothing to help Marti's disposition but she lets you go with little fight.

“I'm serious, Der. We miss you here and if you don't come see me soon then Edwin's going to replace you as my favourite and,” her voice goes very deep and serious, “ **we can't have that.** ” You hang up.

Laughter dies in my throat  
You've made me a graveyard  
Wrap me up  
In a blanket of snow

It's getting colder, as the sun begins to creep past the horizon, so you head back toward campus.

The walk seems to take days and yet seconds at once. Your mind is so distracted, constantly turning over every word you and Casey ever spoke to each other and reopening long-healed wounds.

_“Why the fuck are you even here, Derek?” Her eyes flashed, the blue turned green with patina in the light-- shining like an animal's-- and her hands clenched into fists. “Newsflash, Spacey, but I also go to school here. Last time I checked this isn't the Casey “space case” McDonald library.”_

_She growls, actually fucking growls, deep in her chest and you have the distinct feeling that if you weren't currently between two bookshelves in the library that she would, in fact, be screaming. Grace of God, she's only doing that kind of screaming where you're actually whispering very angrily and your face is screwed up tight with rage. “You know what I mean, asshole,” she says. In fact, you don't. The last time you had spoken she was offering to tutor you in math and you were lounging on the couch in her apartment, watching a movie and eating her popcorn._

_“Why did you come to Queens? Why Kingston?” She's furious and that certainly isn't brand new but you feel like the world is shifting out from beneath you because things had been going so well and now you're being berated in a fucking library._

_“The music program.” You lie. Her eyes don't betray anything. She doesn't even respond, just turns and walks away._

You stumble in almost drunk with hindsight. Nostalgia or something like it but worse. Melancholy a husk around your heart.

Cameron mumbles a greeting without turning away from the show he's watching. The bassist's hands hold a pipe and lighter but the bowl is still green. Jacques and Fäde seem to be out, because the place is quiet. It's a cheap, shitty, small house; no doubt used to parties and shows and the wallpaper yellowed with smoke long before the band had found it.

Sometimes you wish you'd continued the tradition, miss the chaos and noise of a good party and the luxury of simply retiring to your room whenever the desire struck, someone on your arm or not. The flick of the lighter partially snaps you from your torturous reverie. “Don't be stingy now Cam.” Your voice has a note to it, almost foreign the last few months: mirth.

It seems to snap Cam away from the show and that alone makes you feel the gauzy flush of guilt. You've always been difficult, but Queens had done nothing but encourage a full out depression. Anger. Shame. You live with your feelings like they're a spider's web. “It's an alright night,” Cam settles on after a while, and the two of you step out the back and walk to the sad excuse for a fire pit.

It's nice, Cameron and you sitting side by side on a log in the chilly air, pulling jackets tighter around yourselves. You pass the pipe back and forth, fighting the wind, before Cam makes a frustrated sound and disappears through the back door. You appreciate that Cam never makes a show of trying to get you to Talk About Things, just makes himself quietly available.

He returns with a joint, already burning, and hands it over. You take a long toke and no matter how slowly you exhale the breeze steals the smoke quickly. “Also,” Cam says, tapping a bottle at his feet. It's Jack, and you feel an absurd swell of affection for your bass player. You make a gesture with your hand, take a deep swig when Cam hands it over. It does wonders for the chill. Cam takes a swig and places it between your feet.

You notice how close you are, elbows bumping in the night. You take a few more swallows of whiskey, and by the time you're halfway through the joint you're feeling tipsy. You reach for it but miss a few times before Cam chuckles, says, “here,” quietly and takes a long drag. Cam leans in and you roll your eyes. Cam's blue eyes catch the light and shine, you hold his gaze until Cameron taps on your chin impatiently, leans forward more.

You open your mouth, haven't shotgunned since high school, and Cam closes the distance, breathing out slowly as you inhale the smoke. It's nice. When you open your eyes his are still there, close, but he doesn't lean in more. He asks you, “is this okay?” In response you kiss him, thinking nothing but feeling something and he chuckles against your lips, deepening the kiss.

He isn't pushy or demanding, just allows a few grazes of your lips with his smile and you know that your face is a mirror. The joint burned out, dangling precariously from his fingers, so he drops it and you both take another shot, chuckling. “Don't look so spooked man,” you say, “not the first guy I've kissed.” He makes a pleased sound, a small hum, and says, “didn't know that Der.”

“Oh, I'm full of surprises,” you say before placing your hand gently on the back of his head, pulling him back towards you gently. He allows you to guide his head forward, closing his eyes and meeting your lips again easily. The second kiss is deeper, might even mean something but you're unwilling to examine it at the moment, too caught up in Cameron's calloused fingers skimming the tender skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You hold in a groan, but barely. He smiles again, pulls back to regard you casually. It makes you think of the first time you'd met Fäde, his eyes shining and his face cracked open in laughter at something Fäde had said but his eyes not leaving yours until you ducked your head, almost bashful.

“Wanna head inside?” Cameron says, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. You smile, an honest to god smile, and nod. You grab the bottle and follow him through the quiet house, to your room. You smoke another joint and talk about songs and lyrics and argue over the band name for the millionth time. It feels normal, like any other night as you pass the roach carefully and fight over a notebook, but when you look up his eyes are on you. He blushes, caught out, but you smile again and his eyes duck back to where you've been agonizing over a line for twenty minutes.

“We can just scrap it,” you say, frustration tightening your voice, and Cam looks shocked-- almost stricken-- by the idea. “No, man! It's really good I promise. I just feel like if we could find a different word for 'misery,' see? It doesn't fit the rhythm.” You stare at his long fingers where they're gesturing at the page. “Melancholy,” you say; suddenly thinking of how you'd felt only an hour ago.

“melancholy chains keep me, you rattled them and said I was free,” Cam sings, before nodding and replacing the word. His voice is nice, a smooth and jazzy tenor that makes you think of the whiskey. You take a shot and his eyes are on your throat. You think, not for the first time, that between Cameron and Jacques it's insane that they decided you should be the lead singer.

“What's up, Der? Don't go all gay panic on me now,” Cam says lightly. You meet his eyes and shake your head. “Don't worry about that, dude. No panic here.” He looks unconvinced but you've never been great with words so you push the notebook to the floor and pull him down to lay beside you on your bed, kissing him again. “You're incorrigible,” he says, laughing. You join him, your voices harmonizing in the quiet. You get up, walking to your desk to put some music on; the silence of the house bothering you. You sing along a bit, Cam joining in when he recognizes the songs, and lay next to him. His arm snakes around your waist and you pull him closer. You fall asleep like that, the soft notes of Sufjan Stevens lulling you down. _'And will I be invited to the sound? / And will I be a part of what you've made? '_

You wake up on your back, Cam tucked tightly against your chest and the distinct sound of a camera shutter making you flutter your eyes open. Jacques is standing at the foot of your bed, not even bothering to hide his smug smile. “You two love birds up for breakfast? My treat?” He says in his deep, thick voice. Cam raises a hand to flip him off absently, but says, “only if you're buying me some goddamn breakfast of the goddamn gods,” into your neck. Jacques looks pleased, leaving you to sort out the previous night. When you finally rise, untangling the sheets and standing in your boxers, Cam looks almost sheepish until you graze his jaw with your thumb, giving him a smile and giving him a chaste kiss to the upturned corner of his mouth.

Breakfast is low-key, Jacques and Fäde hung over but not above giving you and Cameron some good-natured ribbing. Cam makes offended noises, but there's too much smile in his eyes for them to be convincing. It isn't serious, anyway, so you aren't worried. It hits you all at once, that you've had a fantastic night with your friends and you can't even tell Casey about it. It sours your mood but if anyone notices they let it slide. Your orange juice tastes off; like you'd just brushed your teeth, and you excuse yourself with the excuse of a cigarette dangling from your lips.

Your phone rings, an unfamiliar number, and you answer gruffly. “Derek!” a voice says and you recognize it as the manager of a local bar. “We've got an opening in our show this weekend, thought you guys might be interested. Been a while since Quizzical Therapy made an appearance here at the Shoe, I'm thinking Marcy might miss her favourite bar fly a bit.” You smile.

“We're changing the name actually, but I'll let the guys know. Can't wait Marcus,” you say, “thanks dude.” He chuckles, tells you not to call him dude, and hangs up. You head back inside, sliding in next to Cam with your arm behind him along the booth's back. Fäde raises his eyebrow but the smile hasn't faltered on his face. “Show this Saturday at the Shoe,” you say and the boys clamour excitedly. “We need to pick a fucking name and stick to it though,” you continue, “I'm pretty sure Marcus is getting sick of having to change the posters every time we perform.” The guys nod, and the brainstorming begins. You think, against your better judgment, about that summer night with Casey, drinking in the park and trying to come up with a name for a band that didn't even exist yet.

Backstage, a week later, you're downing a shot and desperately trying to shake away your nerves. Cam appears at your arm, his bass slung around his back and looking far more calm than you ever have before a show. You can hear the band before you guys finishing up their set; the audience cheering. Cam knits his brows together and says, “for luck,” before drawing you in for a lingering kiss. Fäde and Jacques say nothing, prepping their equipment for the set.

“Good evening guys, gals, and nonbinary pals!” The saccharine voice of a very drunk Yours Truly-- the Shoe's resident drag queen and, in fact, the last man you kissed before Cam-- purrs through the mic. “How'd you like that last set?” The audience cheers. “Gorgeous. Now, without much ado about nothing spectacular, let me introduce our next group.” You can hear her pause, clearly double check the name before saying, “folks, it is my distinct displeasure to introduce Blunt Force Trauma!”

This is the moment you do this for, you tell yourself, as Cam's hand squeezes your shoulder. The crowd responds with glee; the Horseshoe has a pretty established clientele and they'd been supporting your crazy pipe dream since you got on stage alone on singer/songwriter night and made a fool of yourself.

“Good evening Kingston,” you say as Fäde beats a slow rhythm on his drums. Jacques' guitar crawls in to join, and Cam is riffing along on his bass. “You all ready to have a good time?” You ask and the crowd cheers. “I just, I just, I just...” you begin while your boys' riffing slowly coalesces into something more, “I just don't know why I came here tonight. / Standing out in the rain, your window's dark anyway.”

It's fantastic, you feel the electricity coursing through you and you think, yeah, that's what the Greeks meant about the muses possessing them. You feel the music literally flowing through you and it's like you're just a conduit; your voice melding into the guitars and the beat replacing your heart reminding you like a chanting mantra: I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive.

After, sitting in the “green room” backstage, Cam is pacing wildly, grinning like a maniac and Jacques has swept Fäde off his feet into a hug so many times that at this point the young, dark haired man just continues typing away at his phone as his feet leave the floor. It went so well that the adrenaline is still fresh; refusing to leave like Cameron's smile and Casey's ghost. As Cameron's loop around the room passes the couch for the eighth time you grab him around the waist, pulling him down across your lap as he just keeps laughing. You kiss him until your band mates start to boo, but there are smiles on their faces too, still. You don't think, suddenly, that you've been this happy in years.

It isn't until the four of you make your way out to the bar for drinks that you spot her. By the grace of God you didn't notice her while on stage. It's like a punch to the gut and you stop dead; Cam's arm slipping from around you shoulders as he continues, deep in conversation with Fäde about new material they've been working on. She meets your eyes timidly, offers a small smile. Her mouth moves and rearranges into shapes that you translate into “you losers are actually pretty good.” You roll your eyes, but don't feel like fighting. You turn to a table of people who'd been chanting for an encore well into the next band's set and school your face into something charming.

Yours Truly slides against your side and kisses your cheek. You laugh, ducking away, and she pats your head. “You boys did great, made mama real proud. But...” She leaves the word hanging, a fan of tension, and finally sighs. “You need to work on the name.” You groan, a palm slipping down your face. You nod.

You head out to smoke, the cold air welcome against your sweat-slick body. Your phone rings and it's Marti again. You shake your head, seeing the late hour, but answer anyway.

“Hey Smerek. How'd the show go?” She asks immediately. You're about to question how she knew when she supplies, “I follow you idiots on twitter you know.” It isn't the first time, certainly not the last, but you are filled full of gratitude for your little sister. “It was amazing,” you say. She hums, obviously sleepy, but makes no move to end the conversation. “Still not sure what to call ourselves though,” you joke and Marti huffs a quiet laugh. “I know it isn't a school night but isn't it past your bed time Smarti?” you ask and she makes a noise like she's gagging on the other end-- miles away in the home your family are all asleep in-- complete with the finger-in-the-throat gesture.

“Gross,” she says after a pause, “don't turn into George on me now.” You shake with laughter and Marti says, her voice thick with emotion, “I've missed that laugh.”

It's so quiet that she almost misses it when you confess, “me too sis.”


	3. ENNUI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween starts exactly as it should; with laughter and mayhem. You wake up as Fäde throws a plastic spider at your head only to realize that you and Cam have been wrapped up in fake spider webbing which is; well truly it's impressive so you can't be too upset about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What! Another chapter??? Yes. After a year I've become suddenly obsessed with finishing this project and am pouring tons of time into it.
> 
> Songs referenced are both by Bon Iver; the first is Lump Sum and the second is For Emma. Both come from his seminal album For Emma, Forever Ago.
> 
> As always, lyrics within performances are original and thus not good. Enjoy!

Halloween starts exactly as it should; with laughter and mayhem. You wake up as Fäde throws a plastic spider at your head only to realize that you and Cam have been wrapped up in fake spider webbing which is; well truly it's impressive so you can't be too upset about it. You play along, though, shouting in indignation, which wakes Cam, and the two of you begin struggling out from under what must be at least $100 worth of fake cobwebs.

Immediately, the three of you-- Jacques has to work until the evening-- begin drinking. It's been nice, the last couple weeks. Peaceful almost. Cameron is a constant presence in your bed at night but all told it's been a bit of a middle school affair; making out and over the clothes only. There's no particular reason for this, except, you suppose, that it's a bit different being with a friend rather than a stranger. You feel no rush to get through things, round the bases, and head home. He's there with you, still arguing over band names and pulling at lyrics until the two of you fall asleep with the notebook still laying between you.

Fäde and Jacques aren't necessarily avoiding the issue since, as far as you can tell, there isn't any. Fäde broaches the topic only once, a quiet, “make sure you're both on the same page with this. I will not have The Homosexual Lifestyle ruin another band.” You laugh, really truly allow yourself to tilt your head back and bark out a laugh. “The Bisexual Lifestyle,” you argue but he just shrugs. His pale, green eyes meet yours for only a moment, and he doesn't look concerned as much as cautious. “Same difference,” he says with the soft hints of his Berliner accent bleeding through the gauze of at least four years in Canada. Your face cracks into a grin and you shrug. It's casual, you don't say. It's nothing serious. No emotions. You don't say anything because none of those statements ring true, and maybe alarm bells go off quietly, distantly in your mind, but you ignore them.

Halloween though; you've always loved fall, the cool air and the colours and the mischief. A girlfriend back in High School had said once that you were an Autumn; you know she meant your colouring but you feel deep down that it's true in every aspect. Like the hunter's moon you seem to only come alive in October. Whiskey flows like honey and there's always beer in the fridge and you're planning a party until you get booked at the Shoe again. It becomes an after party, and the thought is thrilling. It's been a while since you guys had an after party.

Jacques gets home around 4 and has to play catch up for a minute before you head towards your gig. It's your third in as many weeks and every time your name is different and Yours Truly shakes her head and the brainstorm starts up again.

“Good evening,” you purr as your band begins fucking around behind you, “we are...” you pause and look back at Cameron, he shrugs and you say, “Championship Pluto?” In the crowd, Yours drops her head into her perfectly manicured hands and heaves a deep sigh. You perform anyway, feeling it in a way you hadn't until a few weeks ago. Everyone is steadily in their groove and the chemistry is palpable as you lock eyes with Cam and he grins.

“I was a field of fucking roses,” you start and amazingly the audience is joining in, your second time performing a track you aren't even done with and people join in for the lines they recognize. It feels like being God and the Devil and Prime Minister of Jupiter all in one. You're shaking with the joy of it.

Afterwards, your face manic and laughs bubbling from your throat, you turn to Cam and catch his shoulders, kissing his cheek before you've even left the stage. If possible, the audience cheers a bit louder, good-natured jeering and wolf whistles cutting through the din.

Once you're out into the bar you see her again, approaching cautiously like you're a deer she doesn't want to spook. She says, “you guys are really good Derek.” You just nod, a bit put-off by her hot and cold act. “Like I didn't know that already, Spacey.” You retort. She bows her head, accepting the jab with grace, doesn't even complain about the nickname. “I wanted to apologize, for everything.” She says.

It hits you, at once, that you haven't even thought of your fight. The ghost of Casey in your mind receded, but still present: burned in like an afterimage.

“We're uh...” you start, stuttering to a halt. What are you doing? “We were going to have an after party at our place,” you finish slowly. You've given her plenty of time to think of an out, but she just nods a few times, tersely, and hums an affirmation. “So...” she starts, nodding her head behind your shoulder-- you don't have to turn to look to know who she's gesturing to-- “any news? Is it serious?” You regard her carefully, like she's a snake you don't want to irritate, and say, “not too serious. Just enjoying The Bisexual Lifestyle.” She looks like she doesn't believe you; like she isn't sure what to think. You almost enjoy seeing her off balance. Not quite, but almost. Mostly you feel wired and exhausted at once as only a performance can make you. You feel proud of what you're accomplishing. You feel like you might be getting over her, finally, until she winks at you and turns away. Your ears are filling with rattling chains and you flee out the back to smoke in the alley. Cam sends you a feeble glance; not yet concerned but certainly not against moving in the direction. He follows.

The brick is cool against your back, his hands are warm against your shoulders and you ignore his questioning gaze to pull him into a hug. He falls into you easily, chuckling.

“What's all this about?” He asks, gesturing his head towards the inside of the bar. “Was she an ex?” It's a well-meaning question but you're sure he can feel the tension in your shoulders. “Something like that,” you reply, the bitter taste of it heavy on your tongue. You refuse to elaborate so he shrugs, leaning his head back down against your chest. You feel the rumble of his voice as he says, “you did amazing tonight Der. We all did, I know, don't even bother saying it. But your voice was incredible.” If you blush he doesn't mention it. He grabs your hand and pulls you towards the bathroom in the green room. Yours was the last set and all the other bands are out drinking and mingling. 

He crowds into your space, backing you up against the wall. His shaggy auburn hair catches the light and burns, his blue eyes a dare. You kiss him deeply and he moans. “You're so fucking hot,” he groans, pressing himself flush against your body. “You sounded so fucking...” he cuts off, opting to kiss you filthier. His hands travel down your back to your ass, gripping tightly and then sliding around to grip your hips like an anchor.

“Do you want to...” he starts and this time you cut him off, nodding emphatically. “Yes, yes, fuck, whatever you want Cam. Jesus.” You pull him in for another deep kiss, but he cuts it short as he slides to his knees. You're fighting two distinct urges; to roll your head back and shut your eyes or to keep Cam firmly in your sights.

You opt for the latter, training your eyes on Cameron's broad shoulders, speckled with freckles and moles and the boat neck of the destroyed tee he's wearing putting them all on display, and his mop of auburn hair as he unzips your fly and reaches in and-- holy shit.

His fingers are calloused from years of playing, running over the hard line of your dick. It shocks a quiet moan out of you and of its own volition your hand raises up and tangles in his hair. He finally looks up, away from you, into your eyes and the temperature in the room rockets, suddenly humid as the middle of summer. Without breaking that eye contact he slides you into his mouth,

You definitely aren't a virgin but you haven't been fucking anyone since this thing started between you and Cameron. His tongue slides along under your foreskin; your head tracking every ridge and bump like they're leaving scars. Whatever you manage to say must be unintelligible and even if not it's certainly not as important as the plush heat of Cam's mouth.

Your hips buck against your wishes and Cam moans around you which sends you shuddering back against the wall; he chases forward, gripping your hip hard enough to leave welts and sliding down far enough to press his nose into the wiry hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, Cam,” you groan and he responds by sliding back lewdly, staring you in the eyes and dragging his tongue up the length before his lips pop off the head with an obscene sound.

“You like that?” Cameron asks and it's the stupidest most redundant question you've ever been asked. You can't even answer, just thrust your hips again and rub your cock against his stubble. He grins and it makes, if possible, more blood rush south.

“Don't stop,” you say, “this wont take long.” Cameron mumbles something against your thigh, pulling you back into his mouth. You weren't lying, your hips begin stuttering wildly. He swallows. You pull him back to his feet and kiss him filthy. He pulls back and looks at you, eyes wide and blown dark, his lips red and sanguine. You're both smiling wildly. “This is fine, right?” He asks. You've never been good with words. You just kiss him again.

The bar is slowing down by now, there's no sign of her and you think that even if there were it couldn't kill your mood. Fäde gives the two of you a look, but it isn't dampened from the high of your best show yet. You grin at him, and maybe Cameron does too, over your shoulder, but Fäde is smiling and Jacques is flirting with every girl and it feels like the best night, so you shout “After party at Sin Soup!” The remaining drunkards cheer, and you head out the front door with Cam on one arm and Yours Truly under the other. The night is chilly but you've been on fire since you performed and it's welcome. Cam places a sloppy kiss to your cheek and you twist your head to meet his lips, grinning.

'Sin Soup' is what one particularly drunk Senior girl had dubbed your house upon arriving when you'd just moved in. The name had stuck, and at some point one of the boys had painted the words above the front door. It's always a welcome sight, the leaning porch and off-white (yellowed) paint a beacon after the cold walk. Your hand is tangled up with Cameron's; a detail which Yours absolutely doesn't fail to notice.

The party is, truth be told, fairly tame. By the time you all had arrived most people expecting to party had gone home to escape the cold. Casey is waiting outside, however, her hands tucked into the pockets of one of your old jackets. You flash a smile at her and she meets it, seems genuinely happy that you'd invited her.

An hour or a year later you're drunkenly, loudly regaling the crowd about the show and asking them for name suggestions when Jacques' large frame moves to cover your vision. “Might be time for bed now, eh?” He says, his French accent made more pronounced by the booze. You attempt to lean around him but he slides back into your focus. “Look, man,” he says and you're already uninterested, “you've got at least two people pissed at you.” He has dark hair, a sharp angular face and his dark eyes seem thoroughly unimpressed. You're annoyed enough to retort, “what do I care?”

You slip out the back door with a cigarette hanging between your lips. You spot Cameron by the fire pit and join him. He smiles, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. You might be too drunk but you want to fix this, want to explain away problems you don't even understand. You want to tell him that you haven't been as happy in years as you have been with him but instead you blurt out, “I'm sorry you're mad at me.”

He looks at you with an unreadable expression, face blank for too long a moment, before grabbing his drink and heading inside without a word. You feel more frustrated then ever when Yours Truly cackles from across the fire. You hadn't noticed her before and it startles you. She looks like an ancient Roman waiting to see whether or not you will die by the sword.

“Better go fix that,” she purrs in her slow drawl, and you let loose a loud frustrated noise. You stand quickly, leaving her laughter trailing behind you in the dark. The party has died out much like the smoldering remains of the fire. Fäde is telling two ladies about his time in Berlin and Jacques seems to be occupied in his room.

You knock gently on Cameron's door but there's no response. It's hitting you just how much you like him, how much he means to you. You feel your chest tightening and panic wrapping around you in a sour cloak. You storm instead to your room only to be stopped short by the sight of Cameron. He's laying on your bed, maybe asleep, laying on his stomach with his face pressed into your pillow and you go to him, slowly. You sit on the edge and place your hand on his shoulder. All you can do is whisper, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry” over and over again until he turns big, wet eyes to you and says, “okay. Go to sleep.” So you do.

The hangover is so bad that the first ten or so times you wake up its only to groan in agony before curling further into your bed and going back to sleep. Eventually, when you wake up it's with a bone-deep discomfort. You stretch out, feeling your back and shoulders pop and rattling your brain. You realize through the headache that Cameron isn't with you, though he had been last night.

You remember seeing Case when you'd arrived, her smile looking like a white flag; her eyes sliding down to your hand where it was linked with Cam's, but you don't remember her at the actual party at all. You remember Cameron sitting by the fire, looking hurt but without context. You remember Yours Truly's laughter. Too much of the night is black.

You stumble down the hall in search of water and aspirin. Fäde is reading a thick novel on the couch and he regards you for a moment before his eyes return to the page. His pale green eyes show no emotion, but his eyebrow betrays a quizzical tilt. The kitchen is quiet, bathed in a soft light from the late afternoon. You pour a cup of coffee, a glass of water, and take a few aspirin. Jacques and Cameron seem to be out and the quiet is overwhelming.

You lay back down, trying to relax and will away your hangover. Eventually: The pounding in your head almost forming a beat and keeping you up; you get up, throwing on some jeans and your jacket and stumbling out the door. The pounding beat of your headache is starting to form the beginning of a song, the powerful notes of the guitar and subtle chaos of the bass joining your thumping beat but not quite corporeal; like the song is a ghost that you're chasing out of the basement.

The city isn't too busy but the traffic is bothering you. You pull your headphones up and throw together a playlist to get you through the evening; it's Sunday so the city is quiet and you find yourself wishing that your brain would calm.

You get more coffee at that same cafe; the single rose has finally given up the ghost. You return to the shore, Lake Ontario looming before you mysterious and Romantic in the shifting dusk. You find yourself unable to write, unable to think about anything other than the vast void of last night's events.

_Once inside you begin downing Whiskey and Rum and Tequila like it's all water. Casey sits on the couch in the living room, sipping on some beer, and looks as out of place as possible. The crowd is a bit rowdy, at first, the high from the show not run its course yet. You glance at her and she's speaking animatedly to a girl who shows up at most of your shows. She seems happy._

_Cameron catches your eye and winks. You can't help but stare at his lips, still flushed from the bathroom, and feel heat pooling in your gut. He rolls his eyes, as if he can read your mind, and starts waving a loose fist next to his cheek, poking out the other cheek with his tongue in time. You roll your eyes and huff; he's teasing you._

_“Shots!” You hear Jacques chanting from the kitchen until more people join him, a party full of people chanting, “shots, shots, shots, shots,” but no one moving toward the kitchen to actually get or take any. You go, a few people following you. Jacques claps you on the shoulder, perhaps a bit fatherly of a gesture, and then tilts your head back and pours Whiskey down your throat. You laugh as the amber liquid drips down. Yours Truly appears at your side, holding out a joint and you take it gladly._

_At some point, Casey ends up standing out with you and the girl she'd been talking to-- they apparently took a Communications class together-- while you and the girl smoke cigarettes. During a lull in the conversation she turns to you, gives you a private smile, and says, “I've been thinking a lot about what I said.” Thinking about the look on her face in the library, her sharp accusation that still lingers as a scar, you become angry all over again. Your voice is sharp and cruel as you choke out a laugh and say, “well with a hot piece of ass like Cameron pleasing me, I don't think of you at all.” She looks stricken; hurt and confusion marring her features and the girl looks shocked, glancing between the two of you._

_“In that case,” Casey says, her voice suddenly cool and level, “leave me the fuck alone and don't invite me to any more stupid parties.” She turns to go but then stops, looking back over her shoulder and catching your eyes directly-- a challenge-- and says, “and by the way, your band sucks.” She leaves, and you feel suddenly cold and hot at once. The liquor in your stomach starts to churn._

You shake your head, clearing the sudden onslaught of memory. You'd thought, desperately, that nothing could be worse than the void of confusion you'd been left with. Now, though, thinking of how completely you'd destroyed things between you and Casey and how you hadn't heard from Cameron all day. You feel isolated. A sad king of an empty kingdom. It isn't fair, it never is, how you seem to ruin everything around you. You think at first that maybe you're King Midas-- cursed to have your desire but only at the cost of everything that actually matters-- but that's not true. You aren't Midas; you're Lot's wife. So mired in hindsight that you miss your chance at freedom and happiness.

The gray, heavy feeling of depression is rolling down on you in thick waves and looking at the water you consider jumping; filling your pockets with stones and walking until the cold and dark fill you up. You're so tired of being empty. So tired of everything, really.

On a whim you text Marti: 'See you @ Xmas squirt.' She just responds with a series of skulls. This could either be festive or threatening, so you hope for festive and reply: 'Happy day of the dead.' She only answers one more time, sending a picture of her TV playing Day of the Dead. Festive. 

That had been a tactic your therapist had given you. Setting up solid plans with someone you didn't want to disappoint when you were thinking of ending things. It's a feeling that hasn't reappeared, not really anyway, in years and years and it makes you choke out a bitter laugh that it's only when things are actually going well that you lose all hope. You feel like a pillar of salt, ready to be blown away in the wind whipping across the water. 

You go home, slowly, on legs that feel leaden. You think, faintly, that the playlist you had made had been too sad to do you any good. It's late, no one is up, and you return to your room alone, laying in your big bed that still smells like Cameron's shampoo. It's cold, and you rock yourself to sleep with shivers and small, quiet sobs. Even in your nightmares: It's cold. 

_'Sold my cold knot / A heavy stone / Sold my red horse for a venture home / To vanish on the bow / Settling slow'_

November is cold. Blank and cold in the way that only the birth of winter can be. The Shoe has offered an open invitation, the band is performing every weekend and other locations have began to call; it's absurd but it almost seems like this could really happen, like your band could make it even though you can't pick a goddamn name.

Cameron and you are still fooling around, sleeping in your bed and kissing but the tone has shifted; like Halloween was an axis and the balance has lost itself in a downward slide. You tell him, over and over again: “I remember what I said and I'm so sorry. It's not true, it's not how I feel,” but Cam's eyes just twist downward, his smile looking hollow, and he waves off all of your apologies. “It's fine, Der. It's... whatever. Stop worrying.” You can't, absolutely can't stop worrying when you feel him slipping away and you feel like a fool. Like you've ruined an amazing relationship and the future of your band at once and maybe that's your station, your lot in life. You only exist to ruin amazing things.

You get home one night; December has arrived with heavy snowfall and biting winds. Cameron is sitting on your bed, music drifting from your computer and your blanket wrapped tight around him as he stares down into your notebook. Half-finished songs and lone verses stare up at him. His face is neutral in concentration, his eyebrows knit together tightly the only sign that he's frustrated at all. “What the fuck rhymes with center point?” He asks, without looking away from the page half-full of scratched out lines and absent minded doodles.  
“Smoke a joint?” You offer, a joke, and he smiles, pulls one of his perfectly rolled joints from the empty deck of cards he keeps in his pocket. You light it, and halfway through he glances up, finally.

“Our love is a center point, tilting throwing me off balance, after you I'm no longer me from before, the arc of romance is short and bends toward misery...” He looks like he wants to ask a question, one that you'd expected for months now. You just nod, keeping his gaze, before he can vocalize a single word.

“It's about you, or us. Whatever. I think they all are. I think everything I ever wrote was about you.”

“Jesus, Derek. That's some lame bullshit,” he laughs, punching your shoulder and calling you an emo loser. It feels normal, like before all of this. It feels like healing, it is certainly hope.

The two of you never talked about the state of your relationship, as if keeping it quiet and acting like it's never been serious and it's just fun between friends would keep it from going south. You're afraid that maybe it is, for one or both of you, but you know deep down that it's not as casual as you act. The thought terrifies you; the pressure of your relationship holding the band afloat is too much,and maybe that's why Cameron pulled back after what you said on Halloween. Maybe he's just as scared to call it what it is. You sit next to him, open up the blanket and wrap it around both of you, your arm snaking around his waist and your head finding his shoulder. He smells like your body wash. His hair is getting longer, brushing your cheek as you turn to his neck and kiss him there. He pulls another joint from his deck.

Christmas is approaching, and with it a dreaded trip home. Well, back to London anyway; Kingston feels more like home to you than London ever did and you think it's because of the band. Maybe, though, it's always been the ghosts of people there. Your mother, your friends, your exes. Kingston had been a fresh start, unbloodied land, and even if you've already pissed people off and left people behind here it just feels different. All your life you've lived in haunted houses-- or maybe you are the haunted house-- but Kingston feels like a ship and not a house; freedom, but a home all the same.

“So,” you begin and Cam finishes writing in a line before looking over to you, “I'm heading home soon for the holiday. What, uhm... should I tell them if they ask... if I'm seeing anyone?” Cam looks confused, until he doesn't and a blush spreads across his freckled cheeks. He shrugs, but the non-answer doesn't suit you so you just hold his gaze.

“I've never heard you sound so flustered,” he says, “are you... are you out?” It's a valid question but it hits you like a sudden chill. It's your turn to give a noncommittal gesture, your hand waffling about in front of you. “Kind of,” you say. “I mean, my brother and sister know but it's never... I mean, I've messed around with dudes but I've never...” You trail off. Is it even accurate to say dated? You and Cameron have never taken the time to define your relationship, and you feel adrift.

He leans in, catching your eyes again from where they'd become hazed over in anxiety. He smiles, wide and more honest than you've seen in weeks. “Yes.” He says it so simply, leaning in further and pressing a kiss against your temple. “Yes,” you repeat, kissing him back, deeply.

_'Seek the light / My knees are cold / Running home, running home / Running home, running home / With all your lies / You're still very lovable / I toured the light so many foreign roads / For Emma, forever ago'_

You pack up in a fog. The thought of seeing your younger siblings is so good you're delirious with it but it's balanced by the thought of Casey and Nora and George. It's an odd feeling, returning to your family's house after being independent for a year and some change. The building will be the same but the people and the lives inside it will have changed, kaleidoscoped into something that you can't reconcile with the image in your head; can't assemble into anything you can understand. Like you've been made into a stranger with the distance. Maybe, if you'd returned for any occasions during your freshman year it wouldn't be as intense of an alienation, but you'd insisted on staying on campus. Finding yourself in a new place, forging connections and refusing to take any time off from school and your band.

Home is, ostensibly, how you remember it. The same driveway and walls and paint and windows. But inside you can hear Simon babbling and Nora happily encouraging him, speaking along as if her and the two-year-old are having a full conversation. The kitchen window is open and you can smell Nora cooking, hear Edwin and Lizzie arguing over something in the living room. It's all too much, and that's when you feel a hand fall to rest on your shoulder. “It's weird, isn't it?” Casey asks, staring up at the house just like you. “Maybe for the creature from another world, but I'm fine Cassandra.” You retort, leaving her standing out front all alone. She doesn't follow, just keeps staring up at the upstairs window that was hers in what might as well have been another lifetime.

“Derek!” Nora calls warmly as you walk through the hall and into the kitchen. She leaves the stove to pull you into a warm, strong hug, which you return. “Good to see you!” She says, smiling. You can hear Ed and Lizzie scrambling up and away from the television to come greet you but a flurry down the stairs beats them to it; Marti flinging herself at you and wrapping her arms around your neck. “Smerek!” She shouts, before seeming to regain her composure and dropping her voice down in tone, a carefully practiced maturity settling over her features, “I mean um... good to see you bro.” Her mask is incomplete, failing to cover a wobbling smile and watery eyes.

“It's good to see you too Smarti,” you say, as Ed and Liz rush to pile in on the embrace. Simon waddles over on chubby, unsteady legs, and regards you casually. He eventually offers a smile and waddles away, insistent on bothering his mother until she'll give up pretense and hold him on her hip as she cooks.

You don't see Casey until dinner, but she seems to be insistent on acting like you two don't hate each other. It's too difficult to pretend, so you settle on ignoring her instead. Edwin is going on about his calculus teacher and how he's getting tired of correcting her example problems, when Nora suddenly says, “So. Derek, Casey, are you two seeing anyone new?” Casey glances to you, her face flushing, but recovers quickly. “Of course not mom, I would've told you.” Nora turns her gaze to you and it's like time slows. It's now or never so you start nodding. “Yeah, actually. I have been seeing someone. We just made it official before I left.” George looks over, attention finally stolen from his phone, and says, “way to go bud. What's her name?” Simon is babbling absently, making a mess of his mashed potatoes, and everyone is looking at you expectantly.

“Cameron,” you say finally. Casey looks surprised. “He's uh, his name is Cameron. He plays bass in my band.” George's smile falters while Marti's grows into a manic grin. Your father recovers quickly, nodding and saying “well that's great. I'm glad you're happy.” It may be a carefully practiced neutrality but you know George isn't the type to care about things like that-- he's always hated surprises though.

“So, are you gay now or what?” Edwin asks and Lizzie slaps his arm. “Ow, what? It's a valid question.” The family goes quiet, looking to you for an answer and you laugh it off. “Of course not, dick. I'm just way too sexy to deprive half the population of a chance with me.” Nora looks displeased, her smile stretched thin. “Watch your mouth, Derek,” she says and inclines her head toward Simon. You apologize, returning to your meal.

“Dick.” Simon says, and giggles.


	4. HOPE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spending time with Edwin and Marti and even Lizzie is, well, perfect. The holiday has everyone cheerful and the days are full of playing in the snow and being lectured for smoking and the nights are for laughter and hot chocolate and everything you've ever loved about the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup! A whole other chapter in record time!
> 
> I feel the need to warn my audience; especially the Dasey fans, that within this narrative Casey does and says some awful, mean things. She does this because she is a complex person, who has her own insights and motivations surrounding this narrative. However, as this particular narrative follows Derek directly, and he is ignorant of her insights and motivations, these actions will be presented in a particularly unflattering light. I want to assure the audience that I am absolutely NOT attempting to assassinate Casey's character; I, as the author, do not feel that this universe's Casey McDonald is a bad person no matter what Derek (as a character) might think or say. I can only hope that you, as the audience, trust me when I say that I have thought out Casey's actions, motivations, and feelings, and if requested will probably write a companion piece following Casey's perspective on the events in this story because I promise you, she is a good person doing bad things for what she thinks are good reasons. Thank you for your support of this venture, and please don't be mad at me.
> 
> Song's referenced are both by Ra Ra Riot. The first song quoted is Kansai, and the second is The Orchard both from the album The Orchard.

Spending time with Edwin and Marti and even Lizzie is, well, perfect. The holiday has everyone cheerful and the days are full of playing in the snow and being lectured for smoking and the nights are for laughter and hot chocolate and everything you've ever loved about the winter.

The nights are silent, sitting out back with the snow drifting slowly down, writing more than you have in months. And, of course, the nights are for talking with Cam, voices hushed. He keeps sending you teasing, lascivious texts, and Marti ribs you every time your text tone chimes and a quick glance earns you a fierce blush. You feel like it seems like family, really, for the first time. You aren't sure anymore, but this is something close to happiness that's blooming in your ribs.

Casey has avoided you as much as possible, but as Christmas approaches it becomes more difficult. She seems put out, glowering whenever you're forced together.

It finally snaps when she interrupts your phone call with Cam; staring spitefully next to you while you struggle to ignore her and write with your boyfriend across miles and miles of quiet, snowy land. “Is everything alright,” he asks finally. You've been glaring back at Casey and must have failed to respond.

“Peachy. Can I let you go, though? I've gotta deal with a rodent real quick.” Casey's glare deepens, her eyes tiny slits, and she opens her mouth to retort when you hold up a finger. “I guess,” Cam says, disappointed. “You sure everything's okay?” You hum an affirmation and then say, “yeah. All good Cam. I uh... I'll call you tomorrow. Love you.”

At once Casey's eyes fly open, surprised. “Oh, yeah. Alright. I uh... I'll let you go then,” Cam says before hanging up. You slide your phone into your pocket, bracing for an argument, when Casey deflates-- all the fight leaving her at once-- sighing deeply.

You're so mad; that she interrupted you, that she can still get to you while you're trying desperately to get over her, that she can start these fights but never wants to finish them. You start, this time. “You lied to your mom,” you say simply. It isn't a question but Casey seems to consider an answer; reacting like it's a pop quiz. “No I didn't.” She says, finally.

“You were seeing that blonde jock idiot,” you say cooly, “and you told her you weren't seeing anyone. You even promised that if you were she would definitely know.” Casey seems more confused, now, than ever. “Who, Kevin Louis?” She seems almost cagey, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “I wasn't seeing him. Fucked him at a party and got breakfast after. He's in one of my classes.”

Now she seems almost bored. Bored of arguing and bored of fucking meatheads and bored of being here, with you. “And besides,” she continues, “you just lied to your little fuckbuddy, Der.” She regains her footing, seems more assured now that she's deflected the conversation on to you, given herself the upper ground. Your fists clench and you have to fight them to relax. You light a cigarette to distract yourself from your malice. “He's not just a fuck,” you grunt from between groaning, clenched teeth. She has the nerve to laugh in your face.

She leans in to whisper in your ear, like it's a secret, “we both know who those songs are about. Who you think about at night. Don't be an idiot Derek. You'll always be mine. You aren't even a real man. Worthless, like fool's gold.”

You step back like she's shoved you, like she's slapped you, like she's just bared her teeth and growled. You feel it like a knife in your chest, tightening and shredding away your restraint. She leans in, to whisper again or to kiss you but either way you've lost interest and you're long past the threshold on your patience. You shove her back roughly, sending her tripping back into the snow. She just starts laughing, and you leave to escape the wretched sound.

Christmas Eve finds you nestled in a blanket fort in Marti's room, watching cheesy movies but enjoying every minute of it. “What Christmas movie should we watch next, Smerek?” She asks, her voice soft and sleepy and small next to you, tucked under your arm. She doesn't even punch you very hard when you suggest Die Hard just like you do every other year. You pull her close and she says, a toughness in her voice that you don't recognize, “don't you ever leave me for a whole year again. Don't you dare.”

Your only answer is to pull her closer, settling in to watch Love, Actually for the millionth time.

Christmas begins with you waking, on the floor in Edwin's room since your old room had been turned into a game room of sorts, to Edwin's confused gaze over the edge of his bed and the commotion of Casey and Nora screaming at each other.

They are standing in the kitchen, Nora's head tilted and her eyes a carefully practiced neutral while she scowls. “I absolutely will not have this right now, Casey. Whatever it is you're going through I refuse to let it ruin the holiday for everyone else. I'm surprised at your behaviour. Look at how selfish you're being.” She says, hands on her hips and still holding the mixing spoon she'd been using to stir the hollandaise sauce for eggs benedict. Casey looks like she's about to open her mouth to retort when Nora's placid mask crumbles and her gaze becomes downright chilling. “I swear, Cassandra. I have never seen you act like this. And if you make me overcook these damn eggs you will regret it.”

You flinch, even though the Mom Glare isn't directed at you it's just as powerful. Nora seems to realize that you've come downstairs, Edwin shrinking into your shadow, and she regards Casey with one final glance before returning to face the stove, stirring her sauce with vigor. Casey simply turns and brushes past you, knocking your shoulder and stomping up the stairs.

She doesn't come back down for breakfast, her seat like a black hole that every one, even Simon, glance at at least once. Even still, the conversation is easy and the kids are excited and you are too, honestly. It's no Halloween but you've always appreciated Christmas for what it is.

Afterwards, everyone tearing open their presents and George annoying everyone, especially Nora, by videotaping everything, Casey has sheepishly returned. She's quiet, enough so that Lizzie is shooting her strange glances constantly. Regardless, everyone is happy. Edwin is already a chapter into the book on quantum physics you'd picked up for him at the college bookstore, before he asks you to check out one of his new video games. You're standing to follow him upstairs when Casey clears her throat in the kitchen doorway. You meet her eye and walk over, she turns and heads straight through into the garage.

Dread is settling deep in your gut but you follow; a bad habit you've yet to break. She's waiting, leaning on the hood of Nora's car and toying with a box in her hands. Without even looking at you she shoves the box into your arms; you glance down and see the worn leather of your old jacket-- the one she'd worn on Halloween-- and a collection of old shit you'd given her and bought for her. Letters you'd written; pictures of the two of you looking like happier versions from another universe.

“Seriously, Casey?” You manage, leveling her with an unimpressed look. “Well I didn't think you'd want me to throw out the jacket,” she says nervously, like she's steeling her heart, “and I don't want any of it. I can't do this anymore, Derek. You're the worst thing to ever happen to me.” You try to laugh, but it comes out like a rough, heavy sigh. “Fine,” you say and turn to leave.

“What, that's it? Fine? How the hell do you think this is going to work? We just never speak again? We're family and I can hardly stand to look at you. After all the shit we've done, the places we've done it. You're a goddamn wraith, Derek. Haunting me everywhere I go.” She's losing it; a wolf whose sheep costume is worn thin and falling off. Her face is practically manic and she's shaking. “You are the worst parts of my life all rolled up into this fucking monster stalking me every where I go. How the fuck are we going to deal with this, huh? Come clean? Tell the family everything and what, alternate holidays with them? I fucking hate you.”

She pauses too long so you cut in; constraining your voice to keep things quiet. “Don't you dare tell them. Obviously we've fucked up but there is no reason to drag more people onto our sinking ship.” You're wild with anger, every second you've spent agonizing over your feelings for her coalescing into pure rage and she looks much the same, her eyes a challenge. “If you wanna play it that way, Case, here's how it's going to go down. We are gonna play nice for the fam, let them enjoy their goddamn Christmas, and before New Years I'll be on my holly jolly way back to Queens. I'm going to go to class, practice with my band, and have a fantastic, incredible, amazing life and we will not interact at all. You won't talk to me, you won't come to my shows, we won't talk if we're both at a party. When we're outside this house it's over but if you can get your shit together even half enough to keep yourself from Grinching up Christmas, that'd be fan-fucking-tasitc.” She's vibrating with her anger, seeming to glow with it. “Fuck Christmas,” she says and you allow yourself to make a single good decision by just walking away. “Tell her no,” Casey says to your back, cryptically, but you ignore her. You carry the box up to Edwin's room and toss it with your suitcase. 

He gives you an odd look, glancing at the box, before throwing a controller at your head and telling you that he got bored of waiting so you're already losing. You allow the video game to distract you, but your energy is too pent up to pay attention and you lose repeatedly before standing up to go smoke; Edwin lauding himself a champion as you accept defeat.

Cam calls. His voice is cheerful, making your heart rate calm finally. “Merry Christmas, Der,” he says. Your reply must not be convincing at all, because he asks, “what's wrong?” with a frown etched into his voice. “Nothing really, just got into a big fight with my step sister. I'm glad you called, really.”

“Step sister?” Cam repeats, an odd inflection in his voice. “You mean Casey McDonald?” Your blood turns to ice or something worse like gasoline. “Yeah I had a class with her last year. She talked about you all the time. Said you were starting a band. She's the one who gave me your number, actually.” It feels like you've been turned to stone, you aren't even sure if you're breathing and Cam seems to not notice that you've gone deathly silent. “Wait a minute. Was she the one you fought with on Halloween?” Suddenly you can breathe again but it's only long enough to draw in a harsh gasp, your throat gone dry and tight. “Yeah,” you choke out but Cameron seems to be expecting you to elaborate. You would, but you don't know what to say. “Well it sounds complicated,” he says slowly, unsure of the tone in your voice. “Should I let you get back to your family,” he says and you're cutting him off, practically begging him not to hang up.

“I can't wait to see you. And the boys.” You say after too long of a pause. “I just want to come back.” Cameron hums, his voice still carrying that odd inflection. “Are you sure you're alright, Der?” He asks, his voice small and honest. “Yes,” you say. You hope it sounds more sure, and it must because Cam drops it. “Well I've gotta go,” he says after a while of small talk, “my mom is calling me. Listen though, I hope you're alright. I love you, Derek. Merry Christmas.”

You're in a daze. Feeling like a bell that's just been rung for hours. You're smoking absently, feeling like your brain is far away across miles and miles of barren tundra. Your phone rings again, an unfamiliar Toronto number, and you answer before even thinking about it. “Hello,” a cheery and oddly familiar voice says, “is this Derek Venturi?” It honestly takes you a second, remembering how to speak, before you hear a distant voice telling you 'this is a business call.' “The one and only,” you say, feigning confident swagger. The voice laughs, bright and if you could just place it; you swear you've heard that laugh a hundred times before. “Hey! This is Emily. Emily Davis, from high school? Casey's friend?”

You're taken aback, haven't heard from Emily since you'd graduated but you can't believe you didn't recognize her voice. You'd dated after all, and it had actually been a pretty good relationship. “Of course!” You say, “Emily. I thought I recognized your voice. What's up?” Now you're feeling more at ease but somehow things seem to be falling out of place. This seems like a business call but it's from Casey's best friend? On Christmas? “Anyway!” Emily says, clearly getting serious, “Someone sent me demos and videos of your band. You may not know this, but my dad works for a pretty big label. I slipped them to him and he's interested in setting up a meeting with you guys!” You're in shock. Maybe you died. It's like the entire planet falls out of sight far beneath you and you're in the void of space but that tiny, distant voice urges you to say something, anything.

“Oh. Wow that's uh- wow. Thank you so much? That's so uh... wow. That's amazing.” She's laughing again, loud, and you chuckle faintly. “But!” She says, trying for her professional voice and failing to reach it. “There is one condition. My dad absolutely refuses to meet with you until you pick a name. He thought it was cute at first but it's been long enough.” You still feel like at any time she's going to tell you it's all a joke or a mistake, but the moment doesn't come. You're thanking her over and over again until she leaves you to “let the other three idiots know.” It takes you almost an hour, however, to realize that it has to be a surprise when you get back. It's the best of both worlds; it will be a great reveal for your best friends and it gives you time to look into Emily and her mysterious father.

It turns out that Emily was serious; her father works for a mid-size company called 'Interrobang ‽ Records' and the other artists signed to them are having a slight surge in success, you even recognize one song from a TV show Cam had been watching last month. They don't have any bands quite like your sound, but it seems to be eclectic enough for you to still fit under their label. In all honesty, you think it seems too good to be true. Still, you remind yourself, you haven't even told the boys or met with him or, god forbid, seen a contract. It's not like, a sure thing, you keep saying.

But still; it almost seems just crazy enough to actually work. Like maybe this whole year had been leading up to an actual catharsis. Despite all outward bravado and attention seeking; you've never really fancied yourself a main character, never thought that you would amount to much of anything, really, but it's Christmas night and you're laying on your favourite brother's floor and grinning at the ceiling, listening to his deep even breaths and chanting in time with them, 'this is real this is real this is real.'

You're heading home before New Years, chomping at the bit to get home to Kingston and tell Cameron and Jacques and Fäde about the miracle of a gift you all got this year. Marti is glum, but her birthday is in March and you tell her at least ten times before heading out that you wouldn't miss it for the world. You didn't tell any of them about the call from Emily, don't want to jinx it before you even have a meeting actually set up on the calendar. 

_How should I know / After wringing out my memory? / And all that my hands send away / Oh, right before asking to find an answer I knew.'_

Queens seems bigger, somehow, looming ahead of you but you don't dwell on it, too distracted by the pent up energy and the long drive and the secret you've yet to let slip. Sin Soup appears like a mirage and you feel a sudden swell of affection for the entire stupid, shitty building. Home. You park and practically fly across the lawn, bursting up the steps and through the door. Cameron and Jacques look over from the couch, their faces splitting into matching grins and you hear a commotion from Fäde's room right before he throws the door open, looking like he'd just woken up and wrapped in his sheet. They move on you suddenly, crowding you and Jacques hoisting you up a few times before all starting to speak at once.

“Guys shut the fuck up I have amazing news.” You say and they quiet down, sitting around the kitchen table while you make a show of pulling out and lighting a cigarette. “Boys,” you say, finally, “what would you say if I told you that for Christmas, my ex girlfriend got us a meeting with a record company.”

They look unsure, Jacques even laughing and saying, “I'd say 'did you hit your head on the way in?' and then check you for a concussion, friend.” Cameron looks shocked, staring at you with wide eyes and Fäde's eyebrow is doing the thing where he isn't sure whether or not to call you an idiot. You raise your hand, say, “swear to fucking Christ boys, this is not a drill. Interrobang Records.” Fäde's eyebrow finally settles on pleased surprise. “Interrobang?” he asks, “aren't they like cool and new and doing well? What the fuck do they want with us?” Everyone looks at each other, quietly, until Cameron seems to come back into his body all of a sudden.

“Shut up you assholes,” he says, his voice betraying excitement, “this is fucking amazing. We rock.” You all cheer, then pour shots to celebrate. “Oh! But we need a name before her dad will meet with us.” You say, after downing the smooth, cold liquor. The guys start thinking, going quiet but all at once you think of Casey, of how odd she'd been acting and of her friendship with Emily and of the things she'd said during your fight. “But don't worry, boys. I've already got that covered too. Merry fucking Christmas, huh?”

Cameron corners you in your room, that night. You're both drunk from too many shots. He pushes you back onto your bed, climbing over you boldly and saying, “I missed you a lot,” in a low voice. He kisses you before you can respond, he already knows anyway, and you kiss him back reverently. You were only gone nine days but it felt like a month without the warmth of his skin under your fingers and the feeling of his lips on you. His lips are traveling south when you stop him with a hand on his shoulder, holding up a condom with a devilish grin. “Wanna take this a bit further?” You ask, sounding braver than you feel, but Cameron's smile restores your confidence. You roll him over, pulling yourself above him and kissing his lips and his neck and his chest. You work your way down as he reaches into your bedside table's single drawer and tosses the bottle of lube down the expanse of the bed to rest next to your right knee. The entire long expanse of his body is before you like a landscape and you take time exploring his pale skin and the sharp angles of his hips before you kiss the flushed head of his dick. He sucks in a gasp, whispering your name but making it sound like begging, so you oblige him, sliding your mouth over the length of him while your hands fumble with the bottle.

You slick your fingers without looking away from him, enjoying the feel of him on your tongue; like velvet over steel. He cants his hips and you nudge his knee aside with your shoulder, and he gasps when you slide a finger in; then two. You use your free hand to slide on the condom, well practiced motion making it easy.

It feels bizarre but everything in your body is screaming at you to do this; you feel like you're combusting with the urge to fuck so you work your fingers in harder, spreading and crooking them and making Cameron shake around you. He's trying desperately to be quiet but failing spectacularly and it makes you feel a surge of pride that you can do this to him; he's always such a careful and reserved person but the two of you make each other wild. He groans and says, “for fuck's sake Derek if you don't fuck me right now I'm firing you as my boyfriend.” You've never been one to turn down such a polite request, so you pull yourself up and he wraps a leg around your back, pulling you towards him. You kiss him again, telling him everything you struggle to say and he makes a frustrated noise so you push forward, sliding into him smoothly. He's so fucking tight you think you might die, and he's grasping at your shoulders hard enough to leave crescent shaped cuts like a constellation of moons and biting down on your neck so you fuck him as hard as you can.

It's hours later, the two of you curled up on your bed and Cameron says, his voice barely a whisper against your back, “do you think we can really do this? The band?” You lay there for a while, considering your answer, before you mumble, “of course I do. You said it yourself, we fucking rock.” The two of you laugh yourselves to sleep. Right before you tumble into happy dreams of tours and stardom, bizarrely, you think of that one stubborn rose still blooming late into the fall. You think about perseverance and strength and bright, courageous colour in the middle of the gray weather, and you smile.

New Years Eve is a quiet affair; the band deciding against a big blow out party and opting instead to drink with just the four of you. It's nice, relaxed, Cameron tucked tightly against your side and under your arm and you all watching movies and taking shots and smoking. As the night draws on, Jacques gets a call from a girl he's been seeing for a few weeks and leaves to see her, promising to be back before midnight. It feels like an empty promise but you give him the benefit of the doubt.

Fäde keeps putting on more and more obscure cinema; Cam and you becoming increasingly confused attempting to follow plots in other languages. You and Cam kiss through the entire third film while Fäde ignores you.

Jacques returns around 11:30, surprising you and Cam who have progressed to hooking up on the couch while Fäde buries his face in a book and the movie plays loudly enough to drown out the sounds of Cam going down on you. It had started as an experiment; seeing how far you could go before Fäde fled to his room but, as he warns you, “I've spent years living in hostels with dozens of horny teens. I can tune out anything.” Cam had caught your eye and winked, mouthing “challenge accepted” before burying his face against your throat.

You choke out a laugh, eyeing Jacques' scandalized expression before he turns and walks straight to his room. Grabbing Fäde by the back of his sweater and dragging him along. Since you've finally got the room to yourselves, you fuck on the couch and then form a casual distance, watching the black and white movie on screen and listening to the two actors argue in German.

Jacques and Fäde return with a minute to spare, counting down in between making fun of you and Cameron. The new year arrives and it feels like promise and potential, as you pull Cam in and kiss him silly, turn to see Jacques pressing a messy, open-mouthed kiss to Fäde's cheek and the room filled with laughter and joy. It feels like fate, like the four of you are meant to be here. Like the stars themselves had mapped Fäde's travels across Europe and conspired to lead him to Vancouver, and later Toronto, and later still to Queens. As if Jacques' parents had no choice, emigrating to Quebec before Jacques could even speak; as if his rebellious move to Regina (“because it sounded just like a good time, no?”) had been predestined, meant to be a horrible time so he would consider college to escape.

You've never been a believer in fate, but right now, sitting with your three best friends, it feels to you like you never had a choice. Like everything in the last five years was leading up to this moment. The first minutes of this brand new year are full of magic.

_'Oh I imagine things / Through cold eyes of sleep / And I want things / Back more than I do / My life is dull / And my body aches / Oh this blood in my mouth / Makes me hate / How we both end up.'_

The first few weeks of January are quiet. You and Cameron are working furiously-- so full up of your overconfident bravado that neither of you can even conceive a world where you don't get a record deal-- trying to fill up the notebook or at least pour out enough material to scrape together an album's worth. You already had plenty of material, but there's something in you saying, 'it isn't enough, it isn't enough, you need to be ready. This is real this is real.'

You talk to Emily a few times on the phone, setting up the appointment with her dad at Interrobang, and she seems so happy it's infectious; you always leave the calls feeling warm and bright like the sun. Like a star. The boys keep asking about the name but it's tucked away inside-- deep, as you war over whether or not it's the right choice, but it just sits so well in your mouth that it has to be-- only passing through your lips when you're alone and sometimes flying from the lips of Casey's ghost still haunting you.

You can hardly focus in class, once they start up again, and it keeps nagging you that you should. Despite being a straight D student in High School you'd gotten into Queens on your essay and test scores alone and, once here, had actually applied yourself. Turned your D average into a solid B with relatively little effort. Not, of course, that you're a genius. Far from it; but you've always found a certain power in playing the fool.

Despite that nagging sense telling you to pay attention and turn in assignments, that voice never stops echoing in your head. That this chance at Interrobang is going to pay off and you'll have to leave Queens to focus on your band anyway, so why bother? Your meeting is in the first week of February, and the days until then are ticking by so slowly you'd swear it's already been another year. Soon enough, though, it arrives.

Emily greets you at the door, shouting your name as you and the band walk towards the impressive building that houses-- among other offices-- Interrobang Records. Her curly hair is pulled back into several thick braids and her dark, burnished eyes crinkle up into a wide grin. It's been years, but you recognize that bright smile anyway and stride up to her, pulling her into a hug before remembering that she actually works here and pull back, opting for a handshake. Emily's smile never falters as she introduces herself to the three men standing in awe, looking up at the building.

The inside is, if possible, even nicer than the large and gothic exterior. The lobby of Interrobang has deep, mahogany furnishings and silver fixtures and it looks straight out of a magazine; had in fact just been featured in Kerrang! last month as part of a feature on the burgeoning new label taking over the airwaves. Mr. Davis, as it turns out, doesn't just work for the label; him and two of his friends started it after enjoying small success in Canada in the 80s. The thought makes you hysterically confident and nervous at once. His office is large, tasteful, and the man exudes power like cologne. He stands, rounds his desk to meet you at the door and introduces himself with an outstretched hand. After introductions he makes his way back to his large, leather seat and regards you neutrally. “Well boys, I must say when Emily brought me the demos I was skeptical but it was seeing video of you on stage that piqued my interest. You have quite the chemistry, and decent talent.” You're all just looking at each other, maybe in shock, and occasionally you catch Emily out of the corner of your eye, shooting you thumbs up. 

“Thank you, sir,” you say and Mr. Davis holds up a hand, a fond smile tugging at his mouth. “Please, son. Call me Davis.” You nod. “We've got a lot of material,” Cameron offers up faintly from next to you, his right leg jumping up and down like all he wants to do is pace the room, and you place your hand on his knee, soothing, to slow it down. “We do,” you say, “we've just been writing since Emily called, honestly.” He chuckles, glances to his daughter. “Pretty confident, eh?” He says, not quite a question. You just nod again, meeting his dark eyes, and he laughs outright. “All right boys, I like your style. Emily, bring me that contract we drew up, will you?” Fäde and Jacques share a look of incredulous disbelief and Cameron is gripping your arm in a tight vice. Emily slides over a stack of papers, which Davis signs before sliding to you. “Take your time, boys. Read it over.” Everyone looks to you and you just shrug, say, “I trust you. And Emily,” and then you jot your name down, passing it over to Cam. You still can't tear your gaze from Davis, but you can feel a grin warping your features.

“Now tell me boys, who do I have the pleasure of funding?” Davis says, looking at each of you in turn, and then following everyone else's gazes to your grinning face. You've been waiting for this moment for weeks, maybe even your entire life, and now that it's here you're more certain than you've ever been. “Fool's Gold,” you say, your voice more even than your heart.


	5. REGRET

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to Queens after your meeting is, to be honest, anticlimactic. If December and January were storms than February is the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter! This is by far my longest fic, and in fact my longest piece of writing ever. I'm so pleased by the response and I can't wait for you all to see where this is going. Please please leave a comment and let me know what you think, what you think is going to happen, etc. I love hearing from you guys and it really really does make all of this worth it.
> 
> Songs quoted are: Lazy Eye by Silversun Pickups; Islands by Young the Giant; and Your Taste Is My Attention by Lydia.

Returning to Queens after your meeting is, to be honest, anticlimactic. If December and January were storms than February is the eye. The lonely sun rising stark and silent and the moon cutting a vibrant swath through the silent air. February seems, to you, like it should be the beginning of your story; truly though it's barely a footnote.

You go back and try not to think about how you have a record deal. You try not to imagine music videos and tour buses and huge, screaming stadiums who all know your name. Fool's Gold has become your entire life and you can't, now, imagine a life without your three favourite men and their instruments and your shitty lyrics. Classes have become a mere distraction and you're only humoring your professors. It seems-- even now, February-- like your life is just beginning. Everything before a preamble to what lies ahead of you.

The deal is: You are going to finish out your winter quarter, running through April, and after that head immediately into a series of meetings with Davis and/or your mysterious manager, and immediately from that you head into the studio to begin recording. In the mean time you will “act normal” and “refrain from informing the public.”

On the first Saturday after the meeting with Interrobang, you return to The Shoe. Fäde, his short hair dyed silver, is taking a few frantic gulps from a flask; despite being in a bar and entitled to several free drinks by virtue of being a performer. Jacques is standing statue still, heaving deep and heavy breaths with an oddly serene look on his face.

You and Cam are sitting on the small couch, the muffled noise of the band performing the only noise until Cam turns towards you, the light catching in his bright blue eyes, and leans in. “For luck,” he says, and then kisses you soundly.

His lips continue to amaze you, assured and confidant and strong; words you would never have thought of to describe Cameron until you'd kissed him. He pulls back and smiles at you, a small and shy smile, and then the band is holding their last note and the crowd is cheering and it's time to go on.

Yours Truly is standing on stage, her staggering heels a frosted silver and her wig a contrasting crimson and falling in waves to her hips. “Alright kids,” she says in her slow and careful drawl, “for the first time I am proud to introduce for you aural pleasure, Fool's Gold!”

You step out on stage, catching her wink in your peripheral vision as she passes you (her hand absently slapping your ass as she passes) and the crowd is wild. You've built up quite a reputation in Kingston and the crowd is ecstatic that you've returned after a week off.

“Hello hello hello,” you purr as you step up to the mic and grab it loosely in your left hand. “We are four worthless idiots. Pretty, but worthless. We are: Fool's Gold.”

_'And this real / It's impossible if possible / At whose blind word / So clear but so unheard'_

You're quite a few drinks in, Jacques and Fäde already headed home and Cameron a warmth at your side as you heft a pint of beer up and down half of it, when Marcus steps up behind you and claps your shoulder. He's a kind, if awkward, man; tall and broad but looking frail somehow, his skin sallow like he's always in the depths of a fever and his thinning hair hidden under a simple, back cap.

“Derek,” he says, “you boys are amazing! I see a bright future.” You try to focus on smiling brightly and nodding. You mumble something that you hope sounds appreciative and humble but also cocky and you must get close enough because Marcus' smile widens and he nods again, saying something to Cam and the two of them sharing a laugh before he wanders off. Cameron is sipping on some gin, has been for a long time you think, but you can hardly pay attention. For some reason, you keep thinking about Christmas. About Nora's icy gaze, the way Marti was acting so much older than she was, the way Edwin had cast a glance to the box of things Casey gave you and then regarded you for too long a moment. Casey. That's what it is at the heart of the thing; you can't stop thinking about the strange way she had behaved. She had been morose and enraged in turns; lost and adrift in her emotions and so unlike herself that it sticks out, a piece of the puzzle that is technicolour and holographic in the middle of a black and white winterscape. The rest of the trip back to London had been so peaceful that the lightning shock of Casey absolutely losing it has consumed your memory.

You keep thinking about the things she said; that you still loved her, that you always would, that she wanted nothing more to do with it-- with you-- and that you are worthless. You'd never felt that way before, even at your lowest when you'd opened up your grief and your wrists you had never considered that you may, in fact, not have worth. Casey's ghost chases you across dreams and manifests in every room in Kingston where you've ever seen her before. 

Cameron nudges your arm, obviously having spoken to you, and when you glance over he gestures vaguely at the door. He pulls down the dregs of his gin and you finish off your pint before paying Marcy and standing on legs that feel too small, too weak, for how heavy you've become, and walking with Cameron out into the chilly night. The fresh air is a shock and it bites at your cheeks and nose. Cam links his hand with yours while you walk, a cigarette dangling from between the fingers of his other hand and he speaks after a long while. “I was wondering if you were alright. You've been really quiet since Christmas.” You shrug, but it obviously does nothing to assuage his worry. He stops, tugging lightly on your hand to turn you in place, facing you. “Seriously Der. I can tell that something's wrong. If it's me, us, then you need to talk to me so we can figure it out." You're surprised that he's so far off, grabbing his shoulders and shaking your head too hard for how much you've hand to drink since you performed. 

“It's nothing like that, Cam. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I don't want you to worry about that. I'm so happy with you and if I'm ever unsure I'll talk to you, I promise.” Cameron nods, the corners of his mouth playing at a smile. “Are you happy in general?” He asks, tripping over the words. Your eyes shift down, catching on the sidewalk and his boots and your shoes, and you shake your head again. “No.” You say, simply. “I feel like I should be, like everything's going so well but it's...” You trail off, unsure of what to say or do and you can feel big, hot tears gathering in your eyes but not falling. His thumb grazes your cheek and he pulls you into a tight embrace. “I've never really told anyone this but,” you say before your voice breaks and the levees in your eyes break and your teeth clamp shut around the admission.

Cameron just waits it out, holding you like he can assemble all the broken pieces with his warm, solid weight; and maybe he can, even, maybe it's possible to fix people just by being there for them. If it is, Cameron would be the one to figure it out and make it work; take your shattered form and reassemble it into something that at least resembles you. Finally, you calm down enough to pull in a few ragged breaths and make your heart steel. “My mom left,” you start, “when I was 12. I was, uh, really messed up about it and I-” You feel like your lungs are full of sand. Your throat closes up and the only thing you can do is show him: You pull the bracelets off your wrists; you tug the sleeves of your sweatshirt up to your elbows; you hold your hands out, palms facing up like you're asking alms from the heavens and your fingers nervously twitching. The twin white scars slide down the middle of your wrists along a track about three inches long and right in between the bones of your arms. Cameron's eyes sit steady on them for a long time and he only sucks in a quiet gasp, doesn't say anything. He's quiet for a time, tracing the thick lines like he's committing them to memory. Your shame is caustic in your throat and your hands are shaking when his slender, calloused fingers drift out so slowly that it may be unconscious, gliding across the jagged reminders of your weakness, your folly, the depths to which you've sunk before. His fingers find a harbor and wrap tightly around the mooring of your bony wrists, his thumbs tracing so gently that it makes you shiver. 

“Oh, Derek.” He says, after a long time, and then pulls your arms up to his face, kissing your wrists and then pulling you close to him and holding you again. “Oh, baby.” He says sadly. His voice sounds like the ocean, the tears tracking down your cheeks smell like the salt-laden breeze. Your voice rouses from its grave and you choke out, “it won't happen again, but sometimes I just. I'm just so tired. And sad.”

He twines his fingers in yours again, tugging you gently along and towards home. The house is dark, and while you stand numbly just inside the door Cameron cuts a path through the pitch black and pulls a bottle from a cabinet in the kitchen before finding your hand again, leading you down the hall and into his room. He folds you onto the bed and hands the Jack over, you take a swig automatically while he rolls a few joints and then lights one, handing it to you and then busying himself with homework. Soft, gentle music oozes across the night from Cameron's phone while the two of you smoke and you take a few more swigs of Jack and he works out complex math with an ease that enraptures your attention. When he finishes, and you feel like you've returned to the husk of your body, you set the Jack aside and pull him towards you. You lay down and wrap him up in your arms. You might not be able to tell him how much he helps you, how much he means to you, but you can show him. He's laughing, softly, and presses a few kisses to your forehead while you bury your face against his neck.

The lonely sun rises stark and silent and you rise with it; untangling your limbs from Cameron's to sit up and reach over for the notebook sitting on his desk and the half of a joint that you'd abandoned to drift into restless sleep. You busy yourself with writing, the joint hanging loosely between your lips and the words slipping from your fingers like automatic writing; like the lyrics have possessed you.

And when will you grow tired?  
And when will we put out the fire?  
Give up the ghost, but  
I'm a wraith I'm a wraith  
And I'm holding you under

Cam shifts onto his back, once the sun has marched high into the sky, and makes a small sound; a huff of air. He peeks his eyes over to you and smiles, and you lean down to kiss him. His mouth still tastes like gin; like pine needles.

He joins you around the notebook, until eventually your stomachs drag your attention away from the song that's been scrapped and reborn so many times-- dragged kicking and screaming across so many months-- and into the kitchen. You pour coffee while Cameron starts cooking, Fäde and Jacques are gone again, and while some bacon crackles merrily in the background you busy yourself with posting to the band's twitter. You notice a surge of new followers after every performance and it just reminds you to be thrilled that you have a record deal, that you have a chance at this. The thought is so exciting and thrilling at once that you shake with it.

_'Watch it rise up where you hide your pearl / Feel the tide low where you cast those stones you wear / When no one's home do they feel cold on your bones / All the years I've missed your warmth / Have you missed my warmth / On your island'_

As February marches on you can feel anxiety building. Thinking of seeing her again; after Christmas break it almost seems like she neglected to return to Queens at all, her absence from everywhere you go so complete that it screams louder than she ever had. The halls of campus seem more haunted by Casey than ever before, now that she seems truly to have become incorporeal. March is approaching: Marti will turn twelve and you will be there and Casey will be there, both of you face to face, feeling like you'd rather be anywhere else. But you promised, you've promised Marti so many things for so long and you're tired of disappointing her. Of disappointing everyone around you over and over again. You had known, could hear in her voice, how hurt she was that you spent an entire year away from her and rarely called, and that wounded aria of her voice thick with tears spurns you into action, growth, change. You are not that boy any more, you think, and hope to prove it.

_“Derek! Over here!” Someone calls, while you are hurriedly marching across campus. Your eyes are on your phone, panic welling up inside you. You have the most horrible sensation, like you're already being punished for something that you don't know, don't recognize, haven't even done yet. You feel, deep down, that there is something important you've forgotten. “Derek!” The voice insists and you finally wrench your eyes from your blank phone screen, scanning the courtyard. Cameron's arms reach upward, waving for your attention. His white tank top is slightly raised, showing off his sharp hip bones and thin stomach, light red trailing down lightly in the middle of the expanse. You approach him, notice that he's talking to a tall, broad man with dark features and an olive cast to his skin, and the man is holding a sick guitar. “Jacques, this is the guy I was just talking about,” Cam says, gesturing towards you loosely. You hold a hand out, the man takes it, and you say “Derek Venturi. Whatever he told you is probably a lie.” Cameron laughs, Jacques chuckles and introduces himself properly. “So you don't sing like a choir of punk angels, I guess?” Jacques says and you roll your eyes. The joke is clear on his face but you feel the need to defend yourself anyway._

_“I wouldn't go that far,” you say before Cam shushes you, clapping his hand on your shoulder. “He sings like at least a single punk angel,” Cam angles and Jacques laughs, louder. “Anyway!” Cam continues, briskly talking over you before you can even say anything, “Derek and I were talking about starting a band and he said, 'yeah sure Cam but you'll have to find a guy for drums and someone to sing,' and I was like, 'Derek don't be an idiot, you're a punk rock angel and you're obviously the singer so we need someone to cover guitar for you.' So Derek was like, 'that's stupid.' But then I heard you playing over here and it was like, the clouds parted right? And a light shone down on you and you were playing fucking Zeppelin like it was nothing.” Jacques looks intrigued, looks to you and you aren't sure why but you think, fuck it, and gesture to the stranger like he should keep playing._

_He does, tearing his way through Whole Lotta Love and then pulling back and meandering across What Is And What Should Never Be and it is impressive, you admit, how casually he seems to play. Like he's just watching it happen with a bit of detached interest. Like it's the easiest thing he's ever done. He is, admittedly, a much better guitar player than you've ever been. You nod, Cameron is nodding with that look on his face like he's planning the end of the world, and Jacques is looking at you both like you're crazy. “You in or what?” You ask and Jacques nods, twice. “What are we called?” He asks and you and Cam look at each other like you'd completely forgotten bands had names._

It isn't until a year later, as the 28th of February comes to a close and Cam says, “Oh shit! Our band-iversary is coming up,” absently while you scribble over top of that damn song, that you realize what important thing you'd forgotten that day. The very thing you're dreading now; your sister's birthday. Within hours Jacques had introduced you and Cam to Fäde (“he's been drumming since the womb I swear,” he'd said excitedly while pounding on the door) and your band had taken shape, practicing late into the night by playing covers and trying to see how you all fit.

_You're eight takes into Whole Lotta Love when Cam messes up the damn timing for the eighth damn time in a row and you feel more discouraged than when you'd had no band at all, just a dream and a shitty old guitar. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry guys I dunno what the fuck my problem is. I need like, a minute.” Cameron says, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket desperately and leaving the garage through the back door. Fäde shrugs in Jacques' general direction and you stalk over to your jacket, hoping to find a cigarette left. You absently check your phone while heading out back to find a text from Marti. It says, 'You're an asshole Smerek' and nothing else. When you reply with a series of question marks you receive no response. “Something wrong,” Cam says from beside you where he'd been leaning against the wall in the shadows. He's pulling a long drag from a joint and offers it over._

_“Not really, I don't think. I feel like I've been forgetting something all day.” You shrug it off and take the joint, pulling in a few deep breaths and passing it back. Cam just shrugs at you and smiles, smoking for a few minutes before he says, quietly, “I'm sorry I keep fucking up. My mind's been somewhere else all day too.” You clap him on the shoulder, taking the joint in your other hand but pulling him to look at you. “Don't worry about it dude. We'll kill it tomorrow. It's kinda late anyway.” You punch his arm lightly, handing back the joint and turning to head back inside. He follows behind you, a quick glance back betraying his blush and the hand he holds on his arm where you punched him-- not like it hurts but like he's amazed by it, amazed by friendship and camaraderie._

“I'll be back home for the night,” you say. Your eyes are firmly locked on the page; it's so full of written and scratched out and rewritten lyrics and title ideas and band names that you really should just transcribe the newest version of the song onto a fresh sheet to start again but you feel almost like you're superstitiously avoiding it. Cameron makes a small noise, just something to show he heard you, while he pours over his homework. “It's my sister's birthday,” you continue even though he didn't ask a reason, “she's uh... she's turning twelve. I promised her I'd be there.” You feel, for some reason, as if you're inventing an excuse even though all those things are true. Cam says, “oh cool. Tell her happy birthday from me,” but he's clearly more invested in his work. You don't know why you feel so paranoid. Like Cameron is upset when he clearly isn't and you've felt so strange all week, as March approaches and Casey approaches and you feel so conflicted, feeling like you need air but also like if you leave the room now it will be weird or break whatever peace the room is at.

“Wanna smoke?” You try to ask but it comes out as a ragged noise and suddenly Cam looks worried because you're sobbing into your knees and you have no idea what's going on anymore and everything terrifies you.

He just places a hand on your shoulder at first, and when you sag under the weight of the gesture he gathers you into his arms, holding you tightly while you shake and gasp, like he's trying to keep you from scattering to the wind. You feel like a pillar of salt again, and you imagine yourself fading into ash until you must fall asleep.

The rising sun does little to calm your nerves; you wake up with your hands balled into white-knuckled fists in the sheets. Cameron is out in the kitchen, sitting at the table and finishing up homework over a comically large coffee cup. You feel out of place, like a stranger in your own home, as you pour yourself some coffee and sit on the couch, staring at the black TV screen as if at any moment it will turn itself on and show you exactly what to do and say.

You drink your coffee in silence and then it becomes overbearing, overwhelming, and you get up to put the cup in the sink. You stand next to Cameron, shuffling your feet and crossing your arms and feeling like a child. He finishes up, standing and pulling you close without a word. He looks scared, a little, like he doesn't know how to help you and you wish that you knew what to say. He holds you for a long time, before heading out to his study group. You can't help but become maudlin, traveling back to his room like a storm front and pouring yourself out onto the sheet of paper. The song is almost finished. You hope that Davis likes it. Hope that Jacques and Fäde and Cam like it. Hope it might even be your first single.

The day arrives and you wake up painfully early, before the sun has even began to paint the sky rosy with morning, and head back to London feeling like you're traveling to your own funeral. You arrive at dawn, making the trip in three hours instead of the usual four, and let yourself in. You start the coffee pot brewing and then make your way quietly up the stairs, pulling open Marti's door and closing it carefully behind you before jumping onto her bed and startling her awake. “Happy birthday Smarti,” you say while she gasps and giggles brightly. “Welcome home, asshole,” she says, wrapping her small arms around your neck and then slapping you away so she can get up.

You wait while she gets dressed and pour two travel mugs of coffee. The two of you climb into your car and you drive for a while, meandering towards Springbank Park and singing along to the radio. The sun is just starting to warm the sky and the birds are chirping happily and you and Marti are sitting together and she looks like pure joy. You nudge her with your shoulder, grinning, and say “happy birthday Marti,” before you head home. You wouldn't want to scare George and Nora, after all. When you pull up outside the house Marti sighs and says “thanks for coming Derek,” small and honest. You just meet her eyes and smile, nodding, and you head inside.

George and Nora are regarding the mostly full coffee pot with a sort of reverence, still wrapped in their robes and George clutching the newspaper under one arm, when you open the door. You head straight for them, Marti on your heels, as they turn and Nora brightens, says, “Oh Derek. What a wonderful surprise. And... Marti?” Marti shrugs as she fishes in the cabinets for a bowl for cereal. “Derek's a big softie. Must've woken up at like, 2am to kidnap me.” George catches your eye and smiles, Nora's lips echoing her husband's. The day continues on, Edwin and Lizzie joining later in the morning and by lunch there's still no sign of Casey. Eventually Lizzie finds you alone in the kitchen and finally broaches the topic. “Have you heard from Casey?” She asks. You shake your head, watching her deflate. “No,” you say, “she's uh... we aren't really talking...” you say and Lizzie looks curious. “Since Christmas?” She supplies and you nod slowly. She grabs you into a hug and whispers, “I'm sorry about everything.” You just hold her back silently.

Just before you're all about to leave to dinner, Casey shows up, dragging a bag behind her and looking exhausted. “Sorry sorry sorry I'm sorry I'm late everyone. Happy birthday Marti.” She says in a rush as she drops her bag on the stairs and moves in for hugs, working her way to Marti and holding her tightly. “Did I miss presents?” She asks and Marti shakes her head. “We were about to go get dinner. Thai food! Bring your appetite.” Casey smiles, nodding slightly, and her eyes finally land on you. It's like lightning strikes, both of you flinching slightly, before she slides her gaze away and everyone crowds out the door to pile into two cars, Marti and Edwin with you; Liz and Casey with George, Nora and Simon.

Dinner is delicious, you and Edwin both ordering food too spicy and tricking each other into trying the other's dish. Conversation is bright, George eventually turning to you and asking, “say Derek, you still seeing that Cameron boy? Band doing well?” It's an olive branch, you know, for the way he'd gone quiet when you'd told them. “Yeah, yeah,” you reply. “We've been performing every week at a local bar. Getting exposure. Cameron's great. Speaking of which, he wanted me to tell you happy birthday, Smarts.” You're smiling and George looks pleased.

She waves her hand as a vague acknowledgment, her mouth full of pad thai and her eyes shining with the joy that only a birthday can bring a child. Casey is giving you an odd look, like you're a stranger, and she almost says something; her mouth twisting into a question before she's interrupted by the bill arriving. Meals are finished and boxed up, and you pile back into the cars to head home. At first it seems like Casey is going to try to ride with you, but Liz drags her insistently back towards George's car.

Marti loves the sketchbook you got her, the paper heavy enough weight to handle everything from pencil to ink to pastel to charcoal to paints, and the accompanying box of art supplies is sitting on her bed as a surprise for later. Casey hands her a small package, a book inside detailing the history of the Nightmare on Elm Street series-- one of her favourites-- and she smiles so wide it looks painful. Casey seems so different. More like the shy girl she'd been at fourteen than the manic woman who'd broken your heart so many times. She spends time with Liz, of course, while you and Edwin and Marti talk and play cards in the dining room.

Eventually, after everyone's gone to bed and you tuck Marti into bed despite her protests; “I'm twelve now Derek what the hell I'm not a baby,” interspersed with deep yawns, you head out back to smoke and write on the page you'd torn from the notebook before leaving. It's so close to being finished, you can feel it.

She might have been standing there for a while, when she finally moves and alerts you to her presence. She moves slowly, sits in the lawn chair next to yours, and reaches a tentative hand out for the joint burning in your hand. You raise a single eyebrow, surprised. Casey had never smoked that you know of-- had, in fact, always berated you for partaking-- but she insists and you hand it over. “Don't look so spooked Derek. I'm not a narc, promise,” she says sarcastically. She takes several inexperienced pulls from the joint and exhales in a rush, coughing quietly into her arm and handing it back to you. You feel off balance. Dizzy.

She glances down at the page, furrowing her brow trying to make out sense in the mess of chicken scratch and underlinings and strikethroughs and scribbles. “It's a song,” you offer, quietly and she hums, nods. “I'm sorry for saying that your band sucks on Halloween,” she says after a long time of you silently passing the joint back and forth, “because you're really good.” You just shrug, Halloween feeling hazy like a distant memory. Unimportant. “I'm not sorry about Christmas though,” she continues and you don't know what to do, just let her keep talking while the two of you smoke. “I meant what I said, or most of it anyway. I can't be with you. It just...” She trails off, staring into the dark yard and grimacing when you stub out the joint and light a cigarette. “It just hurts too much.” She says after a long time. She might be crying but the yard is dark enough that if she is you'll never know.

“Okay,” you say softly. You don't know what else to do, don't know how to fix five years of mistakes. She turns to look at you, now, finally, and in the soft glow of a streetlight you see that her eyes are dry. You can still feel that pull; the absolute power of magnetism drawing you two together like neutron stars in a suicidal and eternal dance. She's always had such power over you and you've felt so helpless in the face of your lust. You can feel yourself leaning forward, see her silhouette growing to fill your vision and then she kisses you, or you kiss her, or you kiss each other but then you're kissing like you'll never have another chance. Maybe you won't, so she swings herself off of her chair and into your lap in a single motion and slides her palms around your head, dragging her tongue along your mouth and behind your teeth. You're kissing until you're breathless and panting, can feel her wet heat pressing onto the line of your hard cock in your pajama pants. She slides back and forth slowly and you groan into her mouth. She pulls back long enough to strip her long nightshirt off and unclasp her bra and then dives in to capture your mouth again. Your hands are drifting down her back, her hair curtaining the two of you away from the world, and stop to rest against the smooth swell of her ass. She grinds down again, leaving a slick sheen on your pants. You reach further, your fingers playing along the string of her thong and feeling her swollen lips that you know are flushed pink and dripping. You slide the string out of the way and slip two fingers in to her plush heat, and she starts shaking against your lips, sighing into your lungs and you kiss her desperately. One of her hands drifts down, toying with her clit through her panties before tugging them to the side and her knuckles dragging along your dick. She unbuttons the fly and slips her thin, soft fingers against it, no fabric in the way and the assured way they slip around the width and tug the foreskin down and away, her thumb playing with the head makes you groan again. Without much preamble she lifts herself deftly, your fingers sliding out of her and she aims you up and sinks down onto the length of you in a smooth slide. She gasps, hasn't felt your dick in just under a year and you've missed how tight and slick she feels around you.

She starts to buck wildly, riding you like a goddamn stallion. You can feel her pussy leaking, soaking your pubes and the fly of your pants. She's shaking again, coming undone and her walls fluttering around you as she growls and kisses you again. Your thumb slides down, feeling where you're stretching her open and toying with the tight seal of her, the tight-lipped slide of her driving you crazy, before rubbing your thumb against her clit again. Tight little circles that you know drive her crazy. You lean back a bit into the chair, getting your legs under you and shifting your angle slightly, thrusting up to meet her. You suddenly stand, holding her up and feeling her sink deeper onto you before you crash down on top of her, driving in on your hands and knees and trying to fuck the wind right out of her lungs. You're getting closer to the edge, thumbing at her more desperately and feeling her nails digging into your shoulder while she gasps in time with your thrusts before coming again, throwing her head back and opening her mouth in a soundless scream. You pull out, barely in time, and replace your dick with your tongue while you tug a few times and cum into the grass between her feet. You lick and tease, tasting the sex and feeling her pussy until she twitches back, contracting as she cums again all over your face.

You look at her, laying in the grass with her panties off to one side and her hair a mess and a hickey blooming near her right shoulder. You suddenly feel the weight of what's happened settle over both of you as you slip your dick back inside your pants and do the button and she stands on weak, shaky legs to pull her shirt back over her head.

You stare at each other for a while, no one saying anything and you distantly wiping the last traces of her from your face with your T shirt. Eventually, you light up another cigarette and she leaves without a word, heading back inside. You sit, silently, and think about Lot's wife. Think about always looking behind you instead of forward. You feel like salt, drifting on the wind.

_'Come on, just press against me / You always have my attention / And please speak up louder / Make those lips move'_


	6. DESPERATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You leave almost immediately, your head swirling in a panic, stopping only to slide on your shoes and grab your bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another update. Thanks so much to everyone reading, and also OddlyEnigmatic for leaving comments! It means a lot to authors, seriously. This chapter has some of the earliest flashbacks in this story, and some subtle details from earlier start to pay off. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Lyrics quoted are from The Staves 'Facing West.'

You leave almost immediately, your head swirling in a panic, stopping only to slide on your shoes and grab your bag-- thankfully sitting in the living room-- and your heart feeling like stone. The clock on your dashboard tells you it's 2am when you finish shaking apart with the blast from the heater bringing a flush back to your skin. You are absolutely terrified, you realize, as you make your way back towards Queen's. You think about Cameron, a frown marring his peaceful face and tears slipping from bright blue eyes screwed up in pain and your heart stutters in its quick beat, falling out of time. The sky is still dark, the air still chilly but you cut the heat and slide your window down absently, the cold night ruffling your hair and stinging your eyes. A cigarette hangs limply from your lips waiting to be lit. The highway rolls on under and behind and before you, while your mind is years and years away.

_“How have you been, Derek?” The woman asks, her face serene while your mind is a tempest. You're sitting on a small couch in her office, a pillow clutched tightly in your lap. “Fine,” you mumble quietly to the wall next to you, your eyes sliding across the floor and the walls and the couch and your hands, anywhere but her. “Anything new happen at school? Make any friends?” She's prompting you to speak but you can only shrug morosely. Eventually you spit out, “no.” You know, even at twelve, that you're being petulant. It doesn't matter though, nothing does. How can it when your mom isn't even here? Didn't even love you or Edwin or Marti enough to stay. Poor Marti, just a baby, only four years old. You're so angry. At your mom, at yourself. At your dad especially, because he'd just let her leave._

_“Come on Derek,” she says, her eyes kind. She's been patient for weeks, accepting your shrugs and single-word answers with grace but her patience will wear thin eventually. It always does, patience. You've worn through the patience of every adult you've ever met. Teachers either praising your easy wit or bemoaning your attitude with no in between. You'd always thought your mom was the only one with with enough for you, but that was naivety. You'd mistaken her calm indifference as gentle acceptance and you'd pushed and pushed until she'd simply given up and left. It's all your fault, it always is._

_“Do you want to talk about two months ago?” She asks. Her hair is curly and blonde, falling in waves past her shoulders. She's wearing a smart dress, deep blue playing off her brown eyes. You don't, in fact, want to talk about what you'd done. You pick at the bandages absently, looking intently at your knees. “No,” you say, but you can hear the weakness in your voice, the way it shivers and can feel big hot tears gathering in your eyes. “No,” you say again but the tears start to fall. You're crying and hating yourself for it; hating yourself for everything you've done._

_Eventually you calm down and you look her straight in the eye, daring her to argue, as you say, “she left because of me. Cause I'm a handful. Cause I always mess up.” Her eyes look like pity and you hate it. “All I ever do is make people mad.” She shakes her head, goes to disagree but you're done talking. You cross your arms and pout like a baby, stubbornly ignoring her for the rest of the hour._

You're still shaking, the cigarette in your mouth burned down to filter and soggy so you toss it out the window and light another. You wonder, almost distantly, if your childhood home still has the light pink stains where the blood wouldn't come out of the counter and the floor; think that whoever lives there now must have replaced the tile. Erased every evidence of your weakness and pain. You feel dizzy with regret, light like you're leaving the ground behind. Like a balloon that slipped from between a child's fingers.

You have to pull over, once, because the shaking is becoming too much and you feel like you might be sick. You lean, dry heaving, against the bumper in the pitch dark of night. The early, early morning rendering the world silent and cold. Your breath is clouding in front of you in heavy, desperate pants while you heave and heave but the only things coming out are ragged sobs. You pull yourself together, climbing back into the Prince and continuing down the long road.

_'A room with a window facing west / Towards the sea / You, with your hands across your chest / Facing me '_

You know how badly you've fucked up this time. Know how much you've just hurt yourself, Cameron, and Casey all at once and it's just too much. You're overwhelmed. Queen's rises up imposing in the dark and your stomach drops, full of lead. You finally pull up outside Sin Soup, the light glowing faintly in Cameron's room and you're more scared than you've ever been before. You sit in the Prince for a long time, the sun starting to crest the horizon and scattered birdsong drawing you out of your head. You stand on wooden legs and walk in quietly, head down the hall and to Cam's room. You can hear soft music drifting; can see the light still on and bleeding out beneath the door. You open the door slowly, see him sitting on his bed and reading a thick book. He glances up, surprised, and smiles. His greeting seems to die on his lips when he sees your expression. He frowns, regarding the storm clouds in your eyes and then sets his book aside, standing and walking to you. Neither of you are speaking, while he regards you and you will yourself to meet his eye, to not look away.

“What's going on? Are you okay Der?”

_“Are you okay, Derek?” She asks and all you can do is shake your head wildly while fat tears roll down your cheeks. Your fingers are a tight vice on the pillow in your lap and you can't stop crying, can barely breathe through your grief._

“No.” You whisper, a few tears tracking down to plummet off your chin. You're starting to shake again but you won't look away and Cameron looks so sad. Almost resigned, like he already knows what you've done. His eyes narrow, not quite a glare but something similar. Caution. “Who did you go see?” He asks finally and your heart skips. “My. My sister. I didn't lie.” You're hardly able to speak but know he needs to know what you've done. He casts his gaze upward for a second, like he isn't sure whether or not to believe you. “Then who did you go see after? You come in here before the sun's even up, looking like you've killed my puppy and canceled Christmas. Who is she?”

You flinch and he chokes out a bitter laugh, looking to the side in anger or sorrow or both. You don't know what to do, what to say. “How long have you been fucking her? Huh?” You shake your head back and forth, slowly. “Five years on and off. But not while we were...” You stop at Cameron's face, lurching through so many emotions you lose count. “I didn't do anything before... tonight.” He looks like he's warring with himself. Like he might hit you. You would let him. 

“That's not really the point, I guess,” you say and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth, but takes a few minutes to speak again. “Who is she?” He repeats, his voice low and sounding more like a warning. You're fully crying now, shaking with the weight of it. “Casey,” you whisper and Cameron takes a full step back, a laugh startling out of him. “Casey?” He repeats, and you nod. “Who, your sister?”

“Step. Step sister,” you say and he laughs again. There's no joy in it. “Is that really the hill you're gonna choose to die on?” He asks and you look sheepish. “I can't believe it.” He says, shaking his head. “I'm so sorry Cam,” you choke out but he cuts you off, growling, “don't.” He looks so disappointed. “Just, don't right now. Derek. Just... I think you should go get some sleep in your own bed and... we'll talk about this later.” You want to beg him to stop, to let you explain but what can you even say? “I don't really want to look at you right now,” he says, closing the door in your face. You walk to your room and collapse on the bed, holding yourself tightly. It's cold, your room is cold and your heart is cold and you're shaking again, crying until you fall into a fitful slumber.

_“It's all my fault, it's all my fault,” you're wailing and your therapist looks surprised at the sudden upwelling of emotion. You've been so distant and quiet until now but you can't stop. “It's all my fault.”_

You wake up well into the afternoon, stretching your tight and cramped muscles and feeling the useless burden of guilt holding you down. Your head hurts, you feel dehydrated and exhausted and like you're seconds from breaking. Cameron isn't home, but Fäde is sitting at the table reading, looking like he's been waiting for you. He places a bookmark in, sets the book aside and regards you with an expression you can't read.

“What did I tell you about The Homosexual Lifestyle ruining another band?” He asks, but there isn't any heat in the statement. He says it almost like a joke, but you can't find any happiness or humor anywhere in the world right now. “Is it?” You ask, your voice thick and scratchy enough that he winces, slightly, “is it ruined?” He shrugs, says, “that's not up to me. I'll stick with Fool's Gold until the end of the line but whether or not that line ends here is between you and Cameron.” He always says just enough, not the type for grand speeches or soliloquy.

“For what it's worth, Derek,” he says while turning back to his book, “I think you're a bit of an asshole and you really fucked up this time.” It's a dismissal if you've ever heard one (in fact you've heard plenty of dismissals) and a true statement at that. You nod, twice, and head out to figure out what to do.

_'Sing me a song, your voice is like silver and / I don't think that I can do this anymore / Show me the path down to the shoreline 'cause / I don't know if I can do this anymore'_

You know exactly where Cameron will be, but you can't bring yourself to go straight to him. You stop by a diner and get some soup to go, carrying the bag through the streets of Kingston. The afternoon sun is valiantly trying to warm the earth below but you can't escape the chill. You get coffee, too, at the little cafe. Where the rose had been last October there is now a neat row of brightly coloured pansies. Perennials, sturdy and reoccurring. Finally, you give up on wasting time and head to the park; the same spot, in fact, where you had begun work on that damn song almost five months ago, overlooking Lake Ontario. You sit next to him, his legs pulled up and his chin resting on his knees while he smokes, in silence. You set down a mocha and the soup in front of him and he offers you a tiny little smile, takes a drink of coffee and turns to regard the placid water shimmering in the sun.

“I know I can't fix this,” you say and Cameron sighs, his auburn hair falling heavily into his eyes. “But I have to try. I have to...” You trail off, lighting a cigarette of your own, and the two of you sit in silence for a while longer. “Nothing I can say can make it up to you. I know I can't fix us but you're an amazing bassist and an even better friend. If you hate me and you never want to talk to me again I'll understand but I don't want to lose Fool's Gold. I don't want to ruin our chance to make it. You know we can do it, Cam. You know this is for real. Just please. Give me a shot to be...” You don't know what to say. An adult? A good person? Famous? “Better.” You finish.

Cameron just keeps looking out over the water. You think he's going to ignore you, that it's all for nothing, and then he sighs long and weary, turns his head to look at you. “I knew there was something wrong, after Christmas.” You want to argue but he's right.

“I should have seen it coming,” he says and it feels like a knife in your gut, “Casey talked about you so much when I met her. 'My step-brother is a great guitar player, he wants to start a band, Derek is such an ass, you should meet Derek, have I told you about Derek,' it was kind of weird, I guess. That step siblings were so close but then when she gave me your number and we started hanging out I guess I was surprised. You never talked about her at all.”

You don't know what to say so you don't say anything. He's looking at you like you're just meeting for the first time. “When did you meet?” He asks. You have to will your voice to come, say, “we were fourteen. We fought constantly for a year and then she kissed me one night. It's been... It's been a lot of bad times since then. Like we don't know how not to hurt each other.” Cameron nods. He looks tired, and sad, but resigned. “She totally broke things off on Christmas. Told me she hates me, never gonna happen again, I've ruined her life.” You let out a weak and watery chuckle. “I've heard that last one a lot before. Hurt a lot of people. Cam, I never wanted you to be one of them.”

He places a hand on your shoulder, sitting up and looking at you with a blank face. He's always so stoic, you've never once seen him yell at anyone or scream or cry or get angry. “I believe that you didn't want to hurt me. I believe that you're sorry. I believe that it'll never happen again, even, but I can't be with you any more. I can't date someone who cheated on me. I can't date someone who's in love with someone else.” He looks a bit shaken, now, sad and tired and tired and sad. “But I forgive you. And I can't imagine not at least recording with Fool's Gold. This opportunity...” He drifts off, staring once again at the lake, painted pink and orange and deep dark plum by the setting sun. “I don't think even you can fuck up this opportunity, Derek.” He says finally. It startles a laugh out of you, out of the both of you, and then you stand up and walk home.

It isn't perfect, it isn't even necessarily better. You know that you've hurt Cameron so badly, that he will never be with you again. Penance, you think, for all your mistakes. This one, at least, you had to own up to.

March continues, shows at The Shoe continue, classes continue. You've noticed tension at home, more small arguments and small arguments blossoming into big, ugly, days-long arguments. Currently, Jacques is yelling at Fäde for interrupting a date and Fäde is yelling back because Jacques was getting head **in the living room** and all Fäde did was get home from class. It's absolutely foolish, and you and Cam are sitting at the dining room table and eating sandwiches and glancing over at each other every so often, stifling smiles and laughs.

Emily calls, hours later, to set up your first official meeting with Davis and/or your manager, who you still have yet to meet. The itch to get into a studio is becoming so intense that you can hardly focus in class. All you've been doing is writing. Writing and re-writing that one damn song and working tirelessly, filling a notebook, just to be prepared. You hope you're ready.

You spend a week in a hazy fog and then, one night, you're working in the library when Casey walks by. She doesn't acknowledge you at all, walking with Kevin Louis. It feels like a fresh welt. You haven't seen her since the backyard, she looks about as happy as you feel. You hunch back over your notebooks and continue working, furiously powering your way through an essay so you can type it up real quick and get the hell out of there.

You can feel eyes on you but you refuse to look up. Suddenly a figure is standing across from you at the table, you look up only to be greeted by a long, lean woman with short dark hair and big, round eyes. Simone. You haven't seen her at all since the hockey party and it feels like it happened years ago. “Derek,” she says in her low, careful voice. “Sorry I never called.” You shrug, like it's no big deal-- and in fact it hadn't been, hadn't even crossed your mind-- and gesture at the chair she's standing next to. She sits down, smiles at you, and asks what you've been up to. “Focusing on my band,” you say, and she lights up, laughs. Her laugh is like birdshot; a sudden crack and then a lilting, airy singing. “A band? Tell me more.” So you do. You tell her about Cameron and Fäde and Jacques, tell her about your shows at the Shoe. You barely refrain from letting it slip that you got signed to a label, and instead you focus on telling her about some of your songs, handing over your notebook for her to look for herself.

“These are really good, Derek.” She says, and it makes your heart clench. This could have been much simpler if she'd called you after the party. Maybe you'd never have even broken Cam's heart and things wouldn't be so strained in the band. What if? What if? Maybe, maybe, maybe. It does you no good now, so you just thank her and take the notebook when she slides it back towards you. She tells you about her classes, some funny stories from the last few days with her friends, and it seems so mundane that you're almost jealous. You've never had the patience for small talk, for mundane events, even. You've always been so turned in on yourself, so caught up in what you're feeling that you miss what you're doing. She smiles again, fondly, and then says, “I'll see you around, yeah?” You nod, returning her hopeful smile and she stands to leave, gathering her bag and walking away in the fluid way that dancers move even with no music. You return to your essay with renewed vigor.

Your finals are grueling but you come out the other side clutching to your B average. April 17th marks the end of the quarter and the 20th marks your meeting at Interrobang. The constant back and forth between Jacques and Fäde has faded into a cold silence that seems to bring a late frost into the house. Things between you and Cameron are stilted, awkward, but okay. It's like now you're both too used to the intimacy you'd fallen into through the winter, catch yourselves leaning against each other or just pressing soft, gentle touches to each others shoulders or back, like whispering 'I'm still here.' 

Every time, though, you seem to catch yourselves too late, pulling away with a flush to your cheeks. You start shoving your hands in your pockets, desperate not to overstep and break the tentative peace you found. Eventually you transcribe the song you and Cameron had laboured over for months onto a fresh sheet, once it's finally finished and ready to be born. You show them the lyrics and they scan them, Fäde searching out the beat and absently tapping it with two fingers. Jacques shoots you an impressed smile, a thumbs up, and Fäde whistles lowly once he finishes. “It's pretty good, man,” he says. Cameron scoffs. “Pretty good? Derek it's... it's amazing.” You smile, feel it cracking away at your face, and see three echoes. “What's it called?” Cameron asks like it's an inside joke. “Perennials,” you say immediately, reaching over to write it at the top of the sheet.

The trip to Toronto is spent happily enough, a quick trip west on the 401. All four of you are loudly singing along to the radio, Fäde drumming on Cameron's seat from the back while Jacques air guitars behind you. All four windows are down and the sun is shining and it feels incredible. Though, you think, you still have no idea who you'll be meeting with or what about. Emily had remained incredibly vague since February. You pull up and park, close enough to the building that it isn't a hard walk but far enough that you have time to smoke a cigarette. Again, Emily is waiting outside, and this time she pulls you into a tight hug when you arrive. She's dressed up, far less casual than any of you, in a smartly tailored suit, the rosy blush colour contrasting against her skin.

She leads you all up the elevator and into the grand waiting room, bypassing it completely and leading you down a hall. On one wall you can see a few records hanging, one even certified gold recently and room for many more left empty in between the abstract paintings hung here and there. The other wall opens up into a large window, looking in on the recording studio.

At the end of the hall she turns, gesturing you all into a board room. You take seats at the large table, Davis sitting on one side with a chair next to him, empty. Emily paces past you, around the end of the table and sits next to her father. “Thanks for coming boys,” Davis says, his smile easy. “Your social media's been very active, definitely a good sign.” He continues. He seems pleased, excited even. You can feel Cam shaking next to you and you place a hand on his arm, just below his elbow, which seems to steady him. “Since you boys all finished your quarters I figure it's about time we get to work, eh?” You nod, ask, “when do we meet our manager?”

Davis lets loose a peal of laughter, doesn't say anything. Emily catches your eye, grinning. “That's the best part. Since my source found you guys and I brought you to the label's attention, you're going to be my first clients.” You're grinning, but then something that she said seems to lodge itself into your thoughts. Her source. You remember that she said someone had sent her clips of you guys, videos from shows at the Shoe and a few audio files they probably pulled off the internet. Someone Emily knew. Suddenly Casey's ghost is saying to your retreating back, 'tell her no,' and it's your turn to shake. You're so confused. So completely overwhelmed by so many emotions coursing through you, anger and confusion and regret and above all the sour haze of fear. You stand, suddenly, on weak legs and you attempt to leave the room, get some air, anything at all but everyone's looking at you like you've suddenly turned into a hydra and for all you know, you have. Cameron says, “are you o-” and then stands in a panic to catch you when your knees buckle and you pass out.

_“Derek, come on now. It isn't your fault,” she says but you're waving your arms, like you're slapping her words out of the air. “Yes it is!” You yell, closing your eyes and giving yourself over to sadness completely. “Don't you get it? I just make people mad or sad until they leave. That's all I do. Why would I wanna be here, huh? What's here for me?” You're yelling and crying and the woman, the doctor, is just letting you, hands over a tissue which you ball up and throw across the room, letting your tears and snot run down freely. You're absolutely wailing, a terror, and you hope you never have to come back here again. You hope your heart just stops and it's all over. You try to stand but fall to the floor, sobbing. She slides down to the floor too, gathers you in your arms while you push weakly at her. “I'm always alone. What is there for me?” You cry and she rubs your back, murmuring, “Oh, Derek. The whole world is there. The stars and the sun and the moon. Roses and pansies and the woods.” You're still crying, but softer. “You can have the whole world, Derek,” she says, “you just have to be here. You have to be here.”_


	7. PATIENCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Derek, hello. Is anyone there?” You aren't sure of the answer, aren't sure what preceded it or the response that the man is looking for. “Yeah, yeah. I'm here.” You say, hoping that something will deflect attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted are: Phantogram's 'When I'm Small', Mazzy Star's 'Fade Into You', and Slipknot's 'Circle'.

_'Take me underground / Take me all the way / Bring me to the fire / Throw me in the flame'_

_“Derek, do you know why you're here?” You roll your eyes at the woman like she's an idiot, “Duh,” you say. She laughs gently. You've been seeing her for four months now, and ever since your breakdown you've absolutely refused to engage. You've said your piece. You meant it. She still talks to you, though, tells you all about grief and ways to 'process your emotions' and why you're important but it all just seems... rehearsed. Like she's reading aloud in class. It doesn't really matter, nothing will bring your mom back._

_“Derek,” she says, as if reminding you that she's speaking, “is anyone there?”_

“Derek, hello. Is anyone there?” You aren't sure of the answer, aren't sure what preceded it or the response that the man is looking for. “Yeah, yeah. I'm here.” You say, hoping that something will deflect attention.

“Well then, maybe you'd like to tell the group why you're here. Like I asked you to four times.” You hate this; it feels like an old bruise made shiny and purple again. Davis had insisted that he'd do the same if it were a physical issue; would postpone everything for any one of you to get medical treatment but being forced into a support group seems like it won't help you much at all.

You heave a deep sigh. “I'm here because I'm under a lot of stress. I'm here because I have self-destructive tendencies. I'm here because I can't stop fucking up.” You say it like a mantra, like you're just parroting others' words. “I'm here because my boss made me come, does that answer your question?” You've always hated therapy, hated talking about your feelings and your problems and having to do it with a group of people is even worse. You're just hoping to get through this, show up to enough sessions that Davis will move on and stop making you come. No matter how many meetings you sit through, no matter how many half-answers and sarcastic remarks you toss out, no matter, even, how much you want to get 'better,' being here just makes you think of being twelve, thirteen. Just reopens the old scars of your mother's abandonment. It just hurts you worse.

Jacques and Fäde have begun to treat you differently. They're quieter around you, more gentle. It makes you seethe, makes you see red and black. You aren't some fragile little doll. You're the same man that they met. But really, you think, are you? So much has happened since you graduated High School, since before then even, that maybe you aren't the same guy. You hope that the person you are now is stronger. That you're resilient.

The changes in Cameron's behaviour are more subtle, after you collapsed into his arms at the meeting he's given you space, a wide berth, but you crave the intimacy that you'd had before. He sends you quiet looks, when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Like he wants to help but is paralyzed by his inability to understand what it is you need.

The man running the group therapy snaps his fingers a few times, breaking you free of your thoughts.

“I asked,” the man begins like he's long run out of patience, “why your boss made you come.” You're aggravated, infuriated, and to answer him you just flash your wrists and say, “just a little mental breakdown.” His eyes track the scars and shift into ones that look a lot like pity. It only serves to make you more angry, so you get up and leave the room, head outside to desperately smoke a cigarette.

“Tough session?” Asks a woman's voice from beside you. You glance over and see girl, maybe seventeen, taking slow drags from a cigarette of her own. You shrug, nod, and she accepts your non-answer for what it is; more of a complete answer than you could've given in essay format. She extends her free hand, the nails all painted a vibrant mauve, and you reach out to meet it. Instead of shaking she uses her grip to flip your arm and expose your scar. She whistles, long and low, like a diving bell, and then shows you the undersides of her arms in turn. There are scars and scratches and deep, angry crimson cuts marring her pale skin. “I never could go down the lane. Never had the balls. I'm Rae.” She still has a grip on your hand, using it now to shake properly.

“Derek,” you say, stilted. She smiles, a slow and easy grin that slips across her face like the sunrise cresting the horizon. “Pleased to meet you, Derek,” she says, before letting go of your hand and hiking her skirt up on one side, revealing a constellation of circular scars. She puts the cigarette out on her thigh, tugs the skirt back down and slides her fingers along it to smooth it into place, and heads back inside.

You're sick of therapy, couldn't get your head out of the past no matter how much you want to forget your childhood, so you leave. You climb into the prince and drive away, thinking of how Rae's expression hadn't even changed when she burned her thigh. Thinking of how some people can just shrug off pain.

There's no point in heading back to Kingston; all four of you are finished with Queen's unless the band doesn't work out, but you don't want to go back to the cushy apartment that Davis set you guys up with in Toronto, either. You just drive for a while, losing yourself in some loud music and too many cigarettes and the air blowing through your window. You drive for a few hours and find yourself in London. You traced the path on autopilot, not even registering where you were until you passed the High School. You continue on, driving for a while until you pull into the driveway absently. It feels right, somehow, that you've come back to your family's home. You check the door but it's locked, knock a couple times. It takes a minute but Nora opens the door, looking surprised. “Oh! Derek, we weren't expecting you. Come on in. We were just sitting down to dinner if you're hungry.” You nod, smile, and follow her into the dining room. Everyone looks surprised to see you, George smiling fondly. “Derek!” He says, “what brings you all the way home from college? Shouldn't you be off getting into trouble with your friends?” He's joking but you feel the weight of everyone's eyes. You just shake your head. “I was in Toronto, actually,” you say awkwardly. “I've uh...” You stop, aren't sure what to say, but Nora just meets your eye and gestures to an empty seat, next to Edwin. You walk to the kitchen first, pour yourself a glass of water and grab a plate and silverware. You sit and join in dinner but conversation seems stilted, like they were still waiting for your explanation and without it they aren't sure of the tone of your visit.

Marti sends you a few worried glances across the table but you make a point to catch her eye and smile every time. You hate that she worries about you, hate that you've caused it. She's only twelve, just a baby, and you hate that your foolish actions forced her to grow up so soon.

After dinner you sit down on the couch with George, handing him a beer and opening one yourself. He tips his towards you, downing some while he puts on a hockey game on the TV. It's nice, a return to what passes for normal, and you're enjoying the reverie when he finally clears his throat, asks, “how have you been, Derek?” He says it so soft, like he's afraid he might spook you. He sounds like how he sounded when you'd come home from the hospital. Scared.

“I'm okay, I guess. Lots on my mind.” He nods, clinks his beer to yours in a cheers, “amen to that, son,” he says. “What's got you so down?” He asks, his eyes still on the players skating swiftly back and forth across the ice. “I've been thinking a lot about...” You cut off, unsure of what to say. Casey? Marti? Your band? Your mistakes? “Mom.” You say, so quiet it may have been a whisper. George turns to you. He looks weary, he looks tired, and (and it's this thought that scares you most) he looks old. “I think about her a lot, too,” he admits quietly, placing one hand on your shoulder. You look at George like you haven't in a long time, like a father, and your eyes shine with unshed tears. “Do you think,” you start, unsure of where you're going, what you're saying, “do you think it's my fault? That she left?” George looks shocked, like you've just slapped him, and his grip on your shoulder tightens. He sets his beer down on the end table and pulls you into a tight embrace. “Of course I don't think that Der. It was never your fault. I never thought that.” His voice is shaky, uneven. He pulls back from the embrace to look you in the eye. “Do you?” He asks, “is that why you...” His voice fades out; in all these years since it happened George has never once been able to actually speak out loud about what you'd done.

You just nod, resigned, and he pulls you in again. The tears slip from your eyes against your efforts and you heave a ragged sob into his shoulder as he holds you; the rowdy noise of hockey thankfully drowning out the sound of your sorrow. He holds you there for a long time, probably the longest the two of you have ever sustained physical contact in your life. You can hear the dull thudding of his strong heart, feel his hand rubbing up and down your back gently. George has never been a soothing person, never gentle or cuddly, but it seems like he's going to try his best. It seems, in this moment, like he would do anything for you.

“I've been going to some therapy again,” you say against his shoulder. He lets you go, content that you're calm enough to continue the conversation. “Not for- God don't look like that, George- not because I've been thinking of... you know. Just. I've gone through a lot this year. I'm stressed and it's just taking a toll. Actually my manager made me start going to a group thing a couple weeks ago.” George looks pleased, oddly, that you're talking about your issues. It feels foreign to you, vulnerability, and you aren't sure if you like the fit.

“Your manager? Did you get a job?” He asks and you realize your folly. You still aren't supposed to talk to anyone about getting signed- not, at least, until the official press release- but in the moment you can't find it in yourself to care. “Kind of. My band got... signed. To a label. It's top secret though, I could get in trouble for telling you so don't say anything for like a month until the label announces it.” He looks pleased, until all at once he doesn't. “Wait, some guy at a record label put you in therapy? What kind of contract do they have you under?” You realize, belatedly, that this is the absolute worst turn this conversation could have taken. George is rapidly slipping into lawyer mode. You shrug, still not really sure what's in your contract if you're being honest (which apparently you are now, it's a new thing) and George looks almost mad. “Derek. Please tell me you didn't sign a contract without reading it. I swear, kid. If you were so stupid that you-” He cuts off, seeing your expression, and he groans.

“Seriously Derek? Haven't I told you about a million times to never sign anything without a lawyer present? I mean I know at the time I was thinking more of statements to police, but that is the dumbest thing you've ever done.” You feel sheepish; chastised like a child in the midst of opening up your emotions and it feels like a bat to the head. Your ears are ringing, and you think it might be panic. You go to stand up, head outside for fresh air or nicotine or something but your legs are carved out of granite and all you can do is sit on the couch, a distant crowd cheering through the TV, while your father becomes lost in his career and talks to you like a client instead of like his son.

_'Fade into you / Strange you never knew / Fade into you / I think it's strange you never knew'_

_George looks scared. George always looks scared, now, like he isn't sure what to do with you. This isn't particularly new, but it's definitely worse. He pulls up outside your therapist's office where you're sitting solemnly on the stairs, and you climb into the Prince without a word. “How's it going, bud?” He asks but you can't answer, you know that your voice is weak and if you try to say anything you'll just start crying again, so you stare out the window as London passes by. He sighs, long and slow, and just reaches over to switch the radio on. You're grateful, because the tears come anyway and the music drowns out the noise._

You can't help but feel like a child sent to time out when you leave the living room. You head upstairs and, since it's not too late, you knock on Marti's door quietly before opening it and stepping in. She's sitting on her bed, legs crossed underneath her, and the sketchbook that you gave her for Christmas in her lap. She's surrounded by pencils and pens and markers, the page that it's open to filled to bursting with sketches and full-color drawings. Flowers and animals and, as she flips the pages (so many pages) to find the front cover you even see a few portraits of Lizzie and Nora and Simon. She's so talented and you feel a swell of pride. “What's up, Smerek?” She asks, looking up like she's embarrassed that you saw her art. You just shrug, unable to hide your smile. “Ugh,” she groans, “shut up Smerek don't even talk about it. It's not ready yet don't look. It's awful,” she's gesturing frantically at her sketchbook and punctuates her rant by tossing it to the floor. You move, carefully, to pick it up but make a show of not looking further at her work; she'll show you when she's ready. She offers you a small smile and you say, “what I saw looks alright,” and shrug dismissively. Marti holds out her arms and you cross the room to her, sitting next to her on the bed and holding her close.

“I didn't think you'd be back so soon,” she says into your shoulder. You run your hand through her short hair, say, “neither did I. I've uh... had a tough few weeks.” You don't know if you should elaborate, or even if you could if you wanted to. For as much as you mire yourself in introspection you aren't entirely sure what's been bothering you the past few months. It seems like too many things. Coalesced into a quagmire of anxiety and depression. It's tough; it's always tough when you get like this.

“I should probably get back-” you start but she cuts you off, asking, “what are you doing in Toronto?” You look into her eyes, debating on what to do, before coming clean. “My shitty band got signed to a fucking label, Smarts. I might actually make something of myself.” She looks shocked until her face splits into a wide grin and she tosses her arms around your neck again, laughing. “Oh my gosh Smerek that's amazing! Why haven't you told anyone? What label is it? Are you recording like an album? Are the dumb girls in my school going to be bugging me to get autographs?” You laugh with her, allow yourself to feel joy and revel in the absurd opportunity that you have.

“We aren't supposed to tell anyone until the label does a press release about it. So keep it quiet. I can't tell you where but yes we're about to start working on an album. Fuck, how crazy is that?” She absently starts tossing all of the art supplies off her bed and sliding down to rest her head on the pillows, smiling at you the whole time. “Sing me a song you wrote,” she says. It isn't a question, so you indulge her, giving a quiet and slowed down version of Perennials. Her eyes slip closed, but not like she's sleeping; they close in the way that someone closes their eyes when they taste something really good or feel a cool breeze on a stifling day in the middle of summer. “Are all of your songs going to be so sad?” She asks quietly when you finish and you lean down to press a kiss to her forehead, say, “I sure hope not.”

You pull the blanket over her and move to leave when her quiet voice says, “by the way, idiot. You're not going to make something of yourself.” You almost flinch, the smile slipping off your face, until she continues. “You're already something. You always have been.”

_'All that I wanted the dreams I had before / All that I needed I've never needed more / All of my questions are answers to my sins / All of my endings waiting to begin'_

You leave London quietly in the night, driving home in an unfamiliar fog of emotion. Delirious joy. Hope. Faith. It's not a long drive, and soon Toronto is looming ahead of you while you pull off the 401. You return to the building, smoking a cigarette out front, before heading up to the apartment that Davis is paying for. Cameron is sitting in the living room, reading on the couch and wrapped up in a blanket that used to be yours. He glances up and gives you small smile, shifting his feet towards him to make room for you to sit at the end of the couch. When you do he puts his feet in your lap, stretching out again. He says, “you look happier than I've ever seen you. Therapy going well?” It's good natured but leaves a strange taste in your mouth. You throw him a thumbs down, but can't fight the smile playing on your lips. “I fucking hate it. I hate therapy.” This new thing, this honesty thing, has been paying off so far so you continue. “Always have.” He nods, shrugs, and asks, “well then what's got you looking like that?” You aren't sure, exactly. Maybe seeing the family more is good for you. Maybe you're moving on and leaving your past behind. Maybe you just feel so much pride in this band, in your work, in all the hours you spent fucking around in Fäde's garage before you found Sin Soup. Maybe it's all of that and more. Maybe you were right, in February. Maybe someone can fix you just by being there. Maybe Cameron can, even if you aren't dating. You reach out and grab his hand holding it tightly. “I dunno,” you say after a long time, “can't I just be happy for the sake of it?” He smiles wider, nods, and grips your hand tightly. You tug him up, towards you. You're gentle about it, with any resistance he would slip back down to his position, but he lets you. “It's good to see,” he says, and you blush. Your left hand drifts up his arm automatically, slips past his shoulder and your fingers bury themselves in his shaggy hair.

“I miss you,” you say like a whisper, like a prayer, and his smile turns sad for a moment. “I'm right here,” he says, “always have been.” You lean in, pressing your foreheads together, and heave a sigh. He slips his arms up along your sides and wraps them around your back. You know, absolutely know deep down that you're pushing it, but you can't help it. You turn your head, press a small kiss to his cheek, to the corner of his mouth. You press another kiss, chaste, into his smile and he laughs. “Get out of here you emo loser. Get some sleep.” You do, turning to watch him as he tries to hide a smile behind his book, before heading down the hall and to your room. It's not too cold, a comfortable temperature, and the bed is nice. It seems too big for just you.

You wake up when your phone starts ringing. Or, at least, you wake up to the sound of your phone ringing. You swat at the table blindly until you find it, pulling it to your face so your bleary and sleepy eyes can struggle to read the number. It's not familiar, so you answer. “Derek?” A woman's voice asks. “It's Simone! I thought I would finally call you.” Her voice is light and airy, sounds like the wind whistling through a meadow. “I was hoping we could get lunch?” She says. You realize that you haven't said anything, take a long sip of water from the class on the table, and reply, “Hey Simone. It's good to hear from you. I'm actually in Toronto for a few weeks though.” You can almost hear the smile in her voice when she teases, “well that's not too far. It's not like you're over in Yukon.” She asks if you want to meet up and you agree easily. Simone is sweet, and interesting, and beautiful. You'd be a fool not to go. When you hang up after agreeing on a place to meet in three hours (“yes I know the drive is only two Derek, but I have to get ready!”) you program her number into your phone, and finally rise from bed. You pull on some sweats and head out to the kitchen to get some coffee. Cameron has moved from the couch to the table, a cup of coffee sitting untouched in front of him next to his book and one, looking freshly poured and untouched and still steaming in the late morning, sitting at the seat next to him. You sit down, sipping the bitter coffee gratefully. Up close, Cameron looks tired, like he didn't sleep well. His hair is messed up and his shirt is wrinkled.

“You don't have to sleep on the couch, you know.” You say. He looks over at you, and he smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “It's no big deal,” he says. You shrug, unsure of what to say. You reach over and place your hand over his. “I'm going to meet a friend from Queens for lunch in a while if you want to come,” you offer. Cameron nods, and you stand, taking your coffee back to your room to write before you have to get ready.

The restaurant is nice, spacious and with a warm atmosphere. Simone arrives shortly after you and Cameron. She's wearing a dress that flutters in the breeze. It's white, with deep sapphire and plum and crimson flowers. Her dark hair is pulled back and her smile is huge. “Derek!” She shouts as she enters the door. Cameron leans over to you and whispers, “holy shit Derek she's gorgeous.” You just laugh. You wave, introducing Cameron as she arrives at the table and she shakes his hand before sitting down. “Toronto is gorgeous, yeah? I love the city.” She says, sipping from the water that a waitress pours for her while flipping through her menu.

The three of you are sharing a huge bowl of poutine, laughing and joking, and it feels nice. It makes you feel warm and light, while you sip on a beer, Cameron and Simone talking about France. He's been, once, you remember, when he was young. “So, Simone, Derek tells me you're a dancer.” Cameron says and Simone's smile is brighter now than you've ever seen it. “Yes. Working on getting into musical theater.” Cameron's eyes light up, “Oh, so you sing too?” Simone blushes, jokes, “not very well, no. I've always focused on dance.”

The conversation is easy, meandering while you drink a few beers and debate whether or not to get another order of poutine. She excuses herself to make a call, and while she's outside Cameron leans over to you again, elbows your ribs and says, “so, dancers huh? What the hell did you ever see in me?” You know he's joking but can't help but be put out. You groan and then slap his arm away. “Shut up you ass. You're better than anyone I've ever been with.” He quiets up, taking a long sip of his drink, and looks almost apologetic before you joke, “and besides, you have a great ass, you ass.” You're both laughing when Simone sits back down.

You both walk her to her car after, agreeing to meet up again. She pulls you into a hug, then Cameron, and she presses kisses onto both of your cheeks, the two of you leaning down for her to reach. “Well boys it's been great. I can't say I've ever been on a date with two boys at the same time before.” You look surprised, flushing while Cameron laughs. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize-” you're saying but then Cameron is laughing louder and Simone is joining him. “Oh calm down,” she says, “it was a joke you handsome idiot.” With that she pulls out, drives away, and leaves you feeling foolish.

“So,” Cameron says as you're walking back towards the apartment, “she's really nice. And pretty. And your type, being a dancer and all. Maybe you should ask her out on a **real** date.” You shove at him but then wrap your hand around his arm and pull him close. “Not a chance, Cam. I'm kind of busy and all. With the band, and therapy for Davis' sake.” You aren't sure what to say, how much to say; aren't sure exactly the terms of the place you've found with him. “Besides,” you say, “there's kind of this boy. He's a pretty good bass player. And his eyes are beautiful. And I'm really trying to focus on making up for throwing away the best thing in my life.” He sighs, sadly, and pulls away from your side, stopping and turning to face you.

“Derek-” he starts but you aren't sure if you can take whatever he's going to say to you. You just pull him close, holding him tight, and say, “I know. I know, Cam. You don't have to take me back but you can't stop me from trying. I really do love you. So much that it... it scares me.” He doesn't say anything, doesn't continue whatever he was going to say. He just walks quietly beside you, stealing drags from your cigarettes and you wish there was something you could do, something you could say to make him understand how important he is to you. You wish that it would matter, even if you could make him understand.

You tug on his arm, pulling him across the street and down towards downtown instead of back to the apartment. You know that whatever he was going to say is weighing heavily on him, and the possibilities of what it could be have you anxious. You walk down a few streets randomly when a storefront catches your eye. You stop, walking back to check it out, and see that it's a tattoo parlor. Cameron raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything as you shrug and walk inside.

The floors and walls are pristine white like a gallery space, artwork adorning the walls. The woman behind the counter smiles at you when you enter, glancing up from the magazine in front of her. “What can I do for you,” she asks and you grin wildly, an idea forming in your brain. “I've got some scars and I wanted to get them covered up, but I don't know with what.” You tug up the sleeves of your sweatshirt, show the woman the scars on your wrists, and you're flooded with relief when her eyes show interest instead of sadness or worse, pity. She tugs your hand closer, examining the long, silvery-white scars with a detached sort of interest. “What did you have in mind for a cover?” She asks and you shrug. She flips her shoulder length black hair out of her eyes and smiles again. “I have an idea,” she says and pulls up some images on her phone. You're dubious, but Cameron is encouraging the woman and you agree, eventually, to what she suggests.

“It's not about hiding your past,” she says as you sit in the chair. “It's about taking all of the dark shit and making something beautiful.”

It doesn't take long, and when you look down at the end you almost think she hasn't done anything at all, but now where the raised flesh was white it's a bright gold. The fresh tattoos shine from within the ring of red, angry flesh surrounding them, and you realize that it hadn't hurt at all; that in this moment absolutely nothing hurts.


	8. HOPE II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You aren't entirely sure, but something seems to be shifting within you. A slow growth, like waiting for a seed to first sprout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted is Ghost by Sky Ferreira. The song that Cameron sings at Karaoke is In The Long Run by The Staves. The song Derek sings is What Is And What Should Never Be by Led Zeppelin.
> 
> The movie Jacques is watching is Nosferatu.
> 
> The line "But isn't that always the way? We're never what we were" is from a comment by OddlyEnigmatic on a previous chapter of this fic and was used with permission.

You aren't entirely sure, but something seems to be shifting within you. A slow growth, like waiting for a seed to first sprout. You go to a few more group sessions which prove spectacularly unhelpful before you grow tired of it and head to Interrobang's office. The receptionist seems bored, and when you ask to make an appointment with Davis she just gives you a bored look. She calls his office, sounding just as bored as she looks, and then waves you through and returns to filing her nails. Davis looks surprised to see you; his face the very picture of nonplussed. “Derek,” he says, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” It's charming, certainly, you can see how he's succeeded in business thus far.

“I'm not here to tell you I've had enough therapy. I just feel like I'm not gaining as much from the whole group thing as I could be alone.” You say. He nods along, not entirely convinced. “I mean,” you continue, “I've actually done the whole therapy thing before; broken home and all that.” He regards you for a moment, expression betraying nothing, before nodding. “Whatever you need,” he says, “just send me a name when you find one you like.” You nod, thank him both for his time and for hearing you out, and leave the office again.

You head to the clinic next, determined to get out of the group as soon as possible. You're waiting to meet with someone when you see her. It's like a memory come to life and it throws you off balance. You stand, as she walks in, and when she doesn't see you and goes to walk back to where the offices are you say, “Doctor Stromner!” She stops, turns, and it takes a few seconds before her mouth lifts into a grin. “Why Derek Venturi, certainly not who I expected to see. Are you looking to get back into therapy?” Her long blonde hair is pulled back and she has glasses perched precarious on her nose.

“I've been doing a group thing for a few weeks actually. Looking to switch to one-on-one.” You explain and she nods. “I can see how a group might not be the best fit for you.” She says, turning to the receptionist. “Mary, could you pencil Derek in to see me this afternoon,” then turns back to you, “how's 2:00?” You nod a few times, surprised that she would want to see you again after how difficult you'd been nearly a decade ago. She smiles brightly, “perfect. I'll see you in a few hours then.” You stand to leave and she turns back, halfway through the door. “And Derek?” She says, “it's good to see you again. You look happy.”

You return home to shower, your thoughts racing ahead of you. Cameron is reading that same, thick, book but he looks up from the couch and shoots you a smile when you walk in the door. You smile back and as you walk by you ruffle his hair, ignoring his indignant shout and head to your room. You're stripping off your shirt when you hear him behind you, standing at your open door. “What's got you in such a good mood?” He asks and you turn to him, dropping your sweats to your ankles and stepping out of them, and just smile. “What,” you say, “can't I just be happy for the hell of it?” He shrugs, but there's a blush to his cheeks and his eyes are straying down the lines of your body. It's a thrill, honestly, knowing that you aren't the only one who still has feelings. You slip your thumbs into the waistband of your boxers, catching his eye and holding it, before winking and brushing past him towards the bathroom. He shivers. “I'm hopping in the shower,” you say, and then tease him, “wanna join me?” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, and walks back down the hall to return to his book.

Halfway through your shower, while you're rinsing the shampoo from your hair, the door opens and through the frosted glass of the shower you can see him step in before closing it. “Didn't even lock the door, huh?” He says, teasing you back. “Cocky bastard.” You just laugh, until the blurred shape of him starts losing clothes and the shower slides open, Cameron standing naked outside and giving you an intense look. “For the record,” he says, stepping into the large space behind you while the water runs down your face, “this is not us getting back together. I just figure we could both use a lay and we've done this before, after all.” You shrug, and then sigh as his hands slide down your back from your shoulders, slipping around your hips and then running back up your front, barely missing your thickening dick. “Tease,” you say, but there's no heat to it. He grins, you assume, because when he presses his lips to the back of your neck they're in the shape of a smile. You can feel him drawing closer, can feel his dick rubbing against your ass while his hands slip back down, his right hand brushing through your chest hair and along your belly, stopping at your pubes before the fingers find their destination and his hand closes around you where you're already achingly hard.

“Fuck,” you moan when his fingers tighten and start sliding up and down. “I've missed you,” Cameron mumbles against your skin. It feels familiar, so you go with instinct. You buck into his hand and then push back, your ass grinding on his dick, and you say, “I'm right here. Always have been.”

After the shower (which stopped being productive right around the time Cameron joined you) you pull him into your room and lay on the bed, pulling his still nude body close to you and basking in your mutual afterglow. It feels right, feels like fall and winter, and you're about to drift off when the alarm on your phone goes off. You get dressed in a hurry, telling Cam where you're heading, and leave him dozing naked on your bed to see Dr. Stromner.

_You're laying in your bed, curtains drawn, and George is sitting at the foot of it. “Come on Derek,” he pleads, “it's just four more sessions and then you're done. If we don't leave now you're going to be late.” You shrug, as best as you can while laying on your side and glaring at the wall. You don't care. You don't have anything to say, don't have anything left you can learn from the doctor. George sighs, exasperated. “I swear, Derek. It's like you just want to make everything as hard as possible. That's fine and all but why? Why can't you just...”_

“So,” Stromner starts, sitting in a chair that looks suspiciously like the same one from her old office. “What brought you back to therapy, Derek?” You almost shrug, on instinct, but you recognize how much this could help, how much better you feel when you talk about things instead of pushing everyone away. It's a lesson you learned about a decade too late, but you're trying. “How long you got, doc?” You aim for humour but miss by a mile. “I cleared my afternoon, actually.” She replies and you smile.

You aren't sure where to start, really. Aren't sure what event, specifically, led to your breakdown. You tell her the whole story, or at least an altered version of it where Casey is just a girl from school that you dated on and off, culminating in the breakdown in Interrobang's boardroom.

“Well,” she says when you've finished. “That sure is a lot to be going through. I wonder though, do you think you would have pursued therapy again if you hadn't been forced into it?” This time you allow the shrug, this time it's an honest answer, and you think for a while before replying. “I'm not sure. Maybe. I don't think I'm the same boy, you know? I don't know when but maybe I would have.” She smiles, writes a few notes down, and looks back up at you. “So what's the prognosis doc? Am I fucked or am I really fucked?” She laughs, glancing back at her notes and shaking her head. “I wouldn't necessarily say fucked. You're a bright, charming, creative man. Sure, you get caught up in your head and trick yourself into believing the worst, but it's not like you're the first one to deal with trauma in a less than ideal way. I think you're just getting in touch with your emotions a bit late in the game, really. You can identify them, you can examine the causes and you recognize your mistakes, but you don't seem to have really allowed yourself to deal with anything.” You nod, and she offers you another, smaller smile. “You've really matured, Derek.” You want to argue, are about to when she continues, “you really have. Just look at what you told me. You recognized the pain that the affair would cause Cameron so you 'manned up' and you apologized and then gave him the space to deal with it. You recognized that you weren't gaining anything from group therapy and stood up to your boss to get what you needed. I think there's a lot of hope for you. Do you remember what I said the day that you cried? You can have the whole world, Derek. You really can. I believe that now more than I did when I said it to you. You just needed to be present, really take part in life. And now you are. You're here.”

You blush, shrug again and stare at your shoes. Somehow being here, talking to Dr. Stromner, is making you feel like a child. “I just feel like. I don't know who I am any more,” you say. “Like, I'm not the same person.” She checks her watch, your scheduled hour long past, and just shrugs back at you. “But isn't that always the way?” She asks. “We're never what we were.”

_“Can't I just what?” You snap at him. “Can't I just listen to some doctor tell me to get over it? To move on? Can't I just behave? Be a better son?” George's hand pulls away from your shoulder and he sighs again, tired. “Can't you just do this? For us? We're all worried about you Derek. We all love you.” You laugh, bitterly. “Not mom,” you say. You still won't look at him, still barely speak to him. It might be your fault that your mom left but he didn't do anything to stop it. “Please?” Your dad says, his voice drawing thin and weak. You get up, huffing and crossing your arms, but acquiesce. You're too tired to fight. Bone-deep exhaustion gripping you tightly. You haven't smiled in months and you can feel the cold fog of sorrow overtaking you. “Fine.”_

_'Oh remember when you said / That I was sick inside the head / I'm just half way there / My common sense hanging by a thread / I'm bad on the outside / But a coward at heart / The taste of salt in my mouth / My voice is silent / But my thoughts are loud'_

You're walking out the door when you hear someone call your name. You turn to see a vaguely familiar man striding towards you. His grin is infectious and lodges firmly in your brain as something you recognize. “How's it going? Another tough session?” Suddenly he looks more familiar but it's not quiet clicking. His hair is mid-length, dyed fuchsia but pulled back into a smart bun. He's wearing slacks and a button-up black shirt, like he's just gotten off work. “Don't recognize me, huh?” he says. He pulls his hair down, strips off the button-up to reveal a thin camisole, and undoes closures behind his back, pulling a binder from under the cami, revealing breasts. In front of your eyes Rae appears suddenly. “Sorry about that,” she says, “work doesn't really like me to be myself.” She seems to brighten at the loss of her disguise. She's digging into her purse, pulling out a cigarette, and she looks at you like she's unsure of what to expect. You offer her a smile, and a lighter, and it seems like a heavy weight leaves her.

“It just sucks trying to make all this like, legal or whatever. I'm getting pretty sick of being called 'sir.' It's like, why can't people just take my word for it, right? I know who I am.” She's smoking, chatting away idly and you aren't sure what to say. “Fuck 'em,” you settle on, “you know what makes you happy. Don't let people get away with bullshit. Fuck those assholes.” She smiles. “Yeah. Fuck those assholes.” It's odd, you guess, you'd had no idea that Rae was anything but an average troubled teen girl but what really sticks out to you is that she trusted you enough after a single conversation to reveal this truth. Maybe it was the shared self-harm, the fact that you're both getting therapy here, or something else entirely. You drop the butt of your cigarette and snuff out the cherry under your heel.

“Thanks for listening Derek. And for not judging me.” She sounds so young, so sincere and it makes your skin crawl imaging who or what hurt her so badly that she feels the need to open up her arm and burn her thigh. “No problem,” you mumble. Her cigarette is growing shorter. You hold out two fingers, like a peace sign, and catch her eye. She hands it to you, obviously thinking you want a drag, but you drop it and snuff out the cherry. She stares down at the butt for a while before meeting your gaze intensely. “Thanks,” she says again, but you wave her off. She walks inside while you walk away.

You return to the apartment again. Jacques is sitting on the couch watching TV and when you enter he sends you a grin. He pats the couch next to him so you cross the room and sit down. The TV is playing an old horror movie, filmed in black and white and featuring a grotesque man. Jacques doesn't speak for a long moment, watching the movie absently. “I'm proud of you, kid.” He says eventually. He's always toed that line between friendly and fatherly with both you and Cameron, is in fact more than a decade your senior. But that isn't how he says it; he says he's proud of you like he's thankful for rain after a drought, thankful for shore after a long time at sea. You don't think a response is necessary, just nod and then stand. You head to your room, open the door to see the Cameron sprawled across your bed and the long lines of him in sharp relief against the white wall, under your black blanket. You don't say anything, just move quietly into the room and pull the door closed slowly. You walk to your dresser, placing your wallet and keys on the top where there's an assortment of random bullshit. You turn to face the bed, watching Cameron's face as he huffs small and even breaths, watching the rise and fall of his chest and shoulder and the slight blush to his pale cheeks. He's still nude.

He rouses slowly, turning onto his back and mumbling while he stretches out across the bed; much larger than the couch he's resigned himself too. All because you were too selfish to stay faithful. He opens his eyes, the faint light of the late afternoon through your curtains light his eyes like sapphires. He sits up and looks at you. “How long were you watching me sleep?” He asks, but there’s no bite to it. You stand there a long moment and then you say, “long enough to know I never should have let you go.”

He rolls his eyes, lays back down. You want so desperately to just go to him, to cross the room in as few strides as possible and kiss him everywhere. You just stand there, and then he starts laughing. “Jesus Christ, Derek, you are such a fucking loser.” You don't laugh, but you smile. He raises an arm and holds out his hand, so you go to him. You curl around him and he keeps on laughing and it's a beautiful sound.

“It's an alright night,” you say. “Maybe we could catch a movie. We're supposed to start recording soon, won't have a lot of free time.” Cameron rolls his eyes again, but he doesn't look sad. Instead of an answer, Cam says, “you've changed.” Maybe that is his answer, though, because he climbs out of your bed and pulls on your sweats and winks at you when he sees that you're staring at his ass.

It's May, and the air is light and warm from the sun, and the stars are out, and you're walking downtown with a beautiful boy. You feel like that single rose that chose to bloom late rather than never at all. The moon is bright but not half as bright as Cameron's smile; his hand grasping yours and his laughter a song. Cameron keeps saying that the movie was good but you aren't even sure what you'd gone to see. All you remember is Cameron's hand on your arm and how he'd smelled like your conditioner when he tucked his head in toward your shoulder. His lips pink and open in a gasp.

Cameron tugs on your hand, leading you through the streets of Toronto. He pulls you into a dive bar but you aren't in the mood-- until you take a couple shots. There's a decent crowd, groups of friends and coworkers occupying large tables and at the end of the room is a small stage being set up for karaoke. Cameron catches your eye and winks and you groan, obviously having been led into a trap. The night goes on and a few drunk people get up to perform covers of all the usual songs. After the third version of White Wedding Cameron says, “I can't take it anymore,” and stands, walking over and cutting directly in front of a nervous woman who doesn't look too put out about the turn of events . “Hiya everyone,” Cam says into the mic, “I'm Cameron.” The music starts and it's a slow song that you can't place at first. When it hits you it's like you've been smacked. Cameron's voice is beautiful, strong and jazzy but careful. As he sings people actually quiet down, listen. “But we can't be lovers 'cause I'm still afraid / Of leaving the things I love dearly / I wander, I roam, I write home to tell you / That I'm sorry / I won't leave it this late again / But I know that I'll see you again in the long run.”

He gets applause, but you're too numb to join in. You want to go smoke, but suddenly Cam is gesturing for you to come up to the stage, and your legs betray you and move to him. You grab the mic from him and he looks devilish. You look through the book of songs real quick and type a number in to the machine. “This song,” you say before it starts, “we were playing this song when I fell in love.” The machine kicks on.

“And if I say to you tomorrow / take my hand child, come with me...” The grin slips off Cameron's face when he realizes what song you've chosen. “Catch the wind / See it spin / Sail away / Leave the day / Way up high in the sky / But the wind won't blow / Really shouldn't go / Only goes to show / That you will be mine / By taking our time...” The crowd doesn't seem to have expected two semi-professional singers to treat the bar like the set of a teen rom-com musical, singing out your feelings, but they're also enjoying your performance. This is where you thrive, after all, and you can't help but put some swagger into the song; pulling the mic around the stage with you and playing up the guitar breaks with your usual stage theatrics. It makes you realize how much you've missed performing. It reignites your passion all at once and by the time the song ends and you scan the audience Cameron is looking at you like he did the first night Fool's Gold practiced in Fäde's garage. Like you're some wonderful thing he's found.

You rejoin him at the bar, order two shots, and the bartender says, “You guys should really be in a band,” when she hands you your glasses. You and Cameron share a look and he thanks her awkwardly. “You wanna get outta here?” You ask after you clink your glasses together and down the shots. “I think the crying lady is about to sing Adele again.” Cameron looks over, lets loose a laugh, and then links his arm with yours, walking back out into the night.

Back at the apartment, Cameron stalls in the living room, glancing at the couch, but you nod your head toward you room. “My bed's pretty comfortable. Plenty of room.” Cameron looks away from you, back to the couch. “Yeah I slept there all afternoon. I know how comfortable your bed is, Derek.” He's quiet, sounds unsure. “I just feel like. I'm not sure, you know? If this is a good idea. If I've forgiven you. If I even can. I feel like it's too easy. Am I just supposed to get over it?” He won't look at you, his hand slips away from yours and hangs limp at his side. “I don't think it would be a good idea. Not tonight.” You feel a chill, as you walk to your room alone. It follows you all the way into your dreams.


	9. PANIC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're laughing at the movie, a loud and bright and absurd musical, sitting on Casey's couch in her small apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo I hit a horrible writer's block while writing this chapter. I feel absolutely awful, that it's taken so long for me to get this out. It's a bit short and a bit late but it's here! I promise I haven't abandoned this! There's only chapters 10, 11, and 12 left and I know what needs to happen so please don't worry! We will reach the end of this novel together. Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you're reading this, I love you.
> 
> Songs quoted are Moanin' by Art Blakey, and What Is And What Should Never Be by Led Zeppelin. The movie Derek and Casey are watching in the flashback, which takes place shortly before their argument in the library from chapter 2, is Moulin Rouge!

_You're laughing at the movie, a loud and bright and absurd musical, sitting on Casey's couch in her small apartment. She's somewhere behind you in the kitchen, the fridge door closing just barely breaks through the din of the music on TV, her hand slipping over your shoulder and a cold beer can pressing into your neck, making you jump and yelp. She giggles, rounding the arm and sitting back down, and pulls her legs up to rest her feet in your lap. You don't look over, just wrap your fingers around an ankle and absently start rubbing her foot. “What'd I miss?” She asks, softly, even though she could see and hear the TV the whole time. “Nothing really. About 75,000 jump cuts and a technicolor seizure set to Fatboy Slim.” You say, and she laughs again. Her laugh is like a lullaby; soft and bright. So far Queen's has been hard, the two of you arguing incessantly but you'd called her earlier this afternoon: Told her that you missed her, missed laughing, told her that you were missing home and even an alien invader pod person like her must understand that emotion (at least in theory) and she'd told you to shut up and come over, to come hang out. You'd been nervous that the two of you would just end up arguing again but it's been so nice. It's been like summer had been, a peace and a truce setting over you both and bringing relief like rain after a drought._

_You love her, you know you do, but you can't figure out how to make her happy. Can't figure out how to make yourself happy, either. It's like all the two of you know how to do is hurt each other, can't step close without drawing knives and it's crippling what you could have. At times you think that she loves you too, but you can never be sure, can never read her even half as well as the way she seems to see right through you._

_'Everybody knows I'm moaning / 'Cause of all the trouble I've seen / Life's a losing gamble to me / Everybody knows I'm moaning'_

You wake up in the cold of darkness before dawn. Your dreams were troubled and it shows in the way your blankets are twisted around you and half kicked-off like you'd been fighting them. You remember feeling smothered and frigid as if you were drowning in the dark of the ocean. You rise, pulling on your sweats and make your way down the hall. You notice a lamp is on in the living room; Cameron trekking his away through the tail-end of the lengthy novel he's been absorbed in for weeks. He glances up at you with a wry smile, and returns to the narrative. You gulp down a glass of water and sit at the table, thoughts whirling around you like a hurricane.

Meeting with Dr. Stromner has done wonders for your depression, but it's treating a symptom and not the cause. Yes, your brain chemistry is fucked, but the issue is the constant rumination, like you're constantly trapped in the opposite of nostalgia; regret or woe or lament. You're permanently maudlin, even during individual bouts of happiness there's a chain around your neck that you're using to constantly drag around the past. You can't not obsessively examine every interaction with others, pouring over subtext and worrying yourself with invented mistakes. It's become trite, tiring you out into a fatigue which has lasted years. 

The hour and your thoughts are spiraling and kaleidescoping into a maelstrom, but you've been awake too long to find sleep easy. You sit at the table for a long time, staring into the wood grain and listening to Cameron's steady breaths and the sedate clock-tick of him turning pages. He's never seemed to sleep much at night, truly nocturnal. Fool's Gold has been held in suspension, a no-man's land until you finally record music and the label finally makes the press release. The secret has turned oppressive, a weight you carry, knowing that things have only dragged out this long because you're incapable of processing any extreme emotion. You're just overwhelmed by everything around you.

_Her apartment is warm and cozy, barely enough space for her and her roommate. You, in all honestly, love it here. Casey's eyes are bright, glued to the romance on screen but all you can focus on are all the places where your bodies connect- she'd switched position to lean against you after you'd tickled her foot through an entire musical number- her head resting against your shoulder and her arm draped along your stomach, her hand resting just above your knee. If she shifted her arm an inch to the right she'd feel where you're embarrassingly stiff in your jeans, the zipper pressing into your dick like nails. She doesn't, though, doesn't acknowledge the clear outline of your cock along your thigh, just sighs dreamily as Ewan McGregor compliments Nicole Kidman's eyes in a warbling tenor._

You know you won't get any more sleep tonight and your anxiety has you feeling electric so you go for a walk. You're just wandering, hands shoved deep into your pockets in between cigarettes as the early morning quiet surrounds you. You head downtown, the traffic becoming music and the laughter of drunk friends breaking through the night. The bars have all closed but the city is still vibrant with life, never taking a long enough breath to fall asleep. There will be people out until dawn; happy and sad, poor and rich, Toronto reflected brazenly in their eyes.

You've been inspired for months, for a year, forever; always drawn to the cold of night and the bite of wind and the silvery cast of moonlight. It has a magic to it, moonlight, a sort of fae charm you've always found enchanting. It ignites your blood and makes you want to sing, and write.

_“So,” you say. The movie ended and you realized that Casey had fallen asleep leaning against you. She stirs, rubbing at her eyes and yawning. “Hm?” She asks. You aren't actually sure what you wanted to ask, don't know why you spoke at all, but she's awake now and her blue eyes are half-lidded and looking at you with such tranquility and the honesty of the entire moment, this whole evening suddenly puts you on edge so you evade. “I've been thinking about one of my classes.” Casey lazily quirks an eyebrow, then motions for you to continue. “I'm having a bunch of trouble in... in math.” She looks confused, uneasy. You barrel on, desperate to stop digging the damn hole but boring on anyway. “I was hoping you could...” You need to stop, need to get hold of yourself and just make an exit. “What?” Casey asks. “You want me to do your homework for you? Is that why you came over?”_

_“No!” You say but she's cross, her arms looped around her front. “Yeah, no. That shit was cute in high school Derek, but I'm not doing work for you in college. I could tutor you?” This conversation has gone all wrong, shouldn't have started in the first place. It's a silly little misunderstanding late at night, no big deal. You nod, in short jerking motions like you've never actually nodded before, only seen it on TV. You feel a distinct sense like you're leaving your body. “I should go,” you say suddenly, grabbing your jacket and stepping into your shoes and bolting out the door, leaving a full beer sweating on the wood of her coffee table, standing right next to a coaster. It isn't until you hit the street outside the building that you can suck in a deep breath, heaving it out raggedly and groaning into your hands. You walk back to your dorm, in the cold and quiet, alone._

You head back home. Cam is still sitting up and reading. When you come through the door he looks up at you, closes his book and pats the couch near his feet. You oblige him, sitting down, and he stretches his legs out to rest in your lap. “How's it going Der?” He asks. You smile against your instinct. “It's going,” you reply, shrugging even though the corners of your mouth stretch further up. Cameron's face is a mirror. “Good to hear. You look good. Happy.” It's a bit shocking, you think. You never really expect 'happy' to be a word associated with you, but now that Cam says it you know he's right. Even through all of the anxiety and panic and self-loathing you can feel warmth deep in your chest. Cameron sits up, pulling you into an embrace, and drags you down to lay with him on the couch. It's an horrible couch, stiff wood poking you in the hip. Cameron's eyes are big and bright and full like the moon, and he's still smiling when you kiss him. Two smiles, resting together in the quiet.

_'So if you wake up with the sunrise / And all your dreams are still as new / And happiness is what you need so bad / Girl, the answer lies with you'_

Dr. Stromner is sitting in her chair, her face placid. You've been seeing her for a few weeks and you can feel a tension in the air. “So,” she says and there's no inflection whatsoever and it puts you on edge. “We've had a few sessions now. You're leagues ahead of where you were when I saw you years ago. You've expressed your trauma and worked through a lot of unpacking. You're functioning better and adjusting fairly well. Are you ready to talk about your suicide attempt?”

It's like a blade in your heart when she says it. “I don't-” you begin but she continues. “I can't force you, and I wouldn't want to. If you're not ready that's perfectly acceptable and we can discuss something else. I just feel, from my perspective, that having that one thing that you never unpack and work through is going to impede your progress. It'll be an Achille's heel, always dragging you down. I think it would be best to be clinical about it and just, push through.” Her eyes are on her notepad, glancing up to take you in briefly. You're shaken, but after all of the work you've done with her, after all of the tools she's given you and the improvement you've forged, you can feel that she's right.

You make your heart steel before you speak. “I was twelve years old. My mom said uh... 'I can't do it anymore, George,' to my dad. Didn't even look at me or Edwin or Marti. She said, 'I don't want to do this,' and then she stood up from the dinner table and went upstairs and started packing. I think I asked my dad what she meant and he went upstairs and they were uh, yelling, for a while.” You look down at your hands, folded in your lap, one thumb worrying over the knuckle of the other. “After a while my mom just. She just came down the stairs. Looking so happy and calm. She walked right out the door with a suitcase. And my dad. My dad didn't come back down stairs, so I had to make sure the kids ate their dinner and helped wash up and I um, got them ready for bed for him. So after the kids were in bed I just, went into his room and he was just like, laying on the bed and staring at the door. And crying. So I...” You take a few deep breaths, and it never feels like enough, but you continue anyway. “I hugged him and then I tried to talk to him but he was just crying so I put him to bed and set his alarm for him because it was a work night. And then I went and sat at the bottom of the stairs just staring at the front door. Like I'd never seen it before. And I didn't move, even after it really clicked, you know, that she wasn't going to come back any time soon, if at all. But I just stared at the door and I thought about how much trouble I caused. How much stress and annoyance and I was just like. Oh. It's my fault, huh? Even though there was like, a lot of stuff going on that I didn't know. I just felt like, it had to be my fault.”

“After she left I was just kind of. Consumed, by the idea of me driving my mom away. It was all I could think about and it was like a... like a spiral. I was so angry and sad all the time I just... got tired of it. I wanted it to end. So I took the blade out of my dad's fancy razor and I cut myself.”

Stromner is writing, in between looking in your direction. “How did you know not to cut across?” She asks. You chuckle, absurdly enough. “I used to read a lot. I read a lot of my dad's books and he had one on human anatomy. I thought it was funny because there were pictures of penises and vaginas and stuff. But I also thought the picture of the circulatory system was really cool. So I'd learned all about it.”

“And what happened next?” You look back down at your hands. “I bled. Until I passed out. I woke up in the hospital. I guess my dad found me in time.” You hope she can't tell that there's more to it. She doesn't press. You feel tired but also weightless. Like the appointment was an exorcism.

You leave, feeling happy and exhausted and terrified all at once. Rae is sitting on the stairs, smoking and chatting idly on the phone until she notices you. She hangs up, turns her odd eyes to you, and you heave a deep sigh. “Tough session?” She asks and you nod emphatically. “The toughest yet,” you reply, but can't hide the grin on your face. Her eye shadow is dark and smokey, a rich eggplant that makes her eyes look impossibly violet. She smiles back, mauve lips twisting upwards around the cigarette. “You look good, Derek. You look like a man fresh out of prison. I've gotta say, happy is a good look on you, handsome.” She winks and your cheeks flush. She's perceptive, for sure; you feel exonerated and free in a way you haven't since you were fourteen. She catches your eyes, dropping her cigarette and putting it out under her heel, and winks. “I'll see you around,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks into the building.

Beneath you the sidewalk is solid and your legs are solid and your heart is steady and strong. You feel completely foreign to yourself, held down tight into life. The sun is big and warm, and your sunglasses tint everything pink, and you smile to yourself as you walk back to the apartment.


	10. RECOVERY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you open the door you see everyone sitting around the dining room table with Emily at the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on this! Back on track with only two chapters left. What do you think is going to happen? Is Camerek end game, or will Dasey make a reappearance? Will Fool's Gold be a success or will the other shoe finally drop? Let me know your thoughts/hopes/dreams.
> 
> Songs quoted are Ready to Start by Arcade Fire, The Suburbs by Arcade Fire, and Sick of Goodbyes by Sparklehorse.

When you open the door you see everyone sitting around the dining room table with Emily at the head. She greets you, gesturing for you to join them. “So, everyone,” she begins, “it's finally time for the press release. Interrobang is going to start teasing a new artist on social media and at the end of the week we'll officially announce Fool's Gold. That means we have a busy week coming up! We have to take promotion pictures, get you boys ready for interviews and get ready to record. Come by the office tomorrow and we'll get started. It's going to be a lot, it's going to be emotional and demanding and intense to have a spotlight all of a sudden. So we have to make sure you boys are ready in a very limited time frame. I believe in you, all of you. I know we can do this, so just. Good luck. I'll see you bright and early at Interrobang, try not to celebrate too hard.”

Everyone is excited, Fäde and Jacques and Cameron smiling widely and clapping each other on the back. You can't help but feel nervous though, can't help but to wonder if you're really ready despite how positively you feel. Jacques goes to pour celebratory shots but Emily excuses herself, “I'm still on the clock after all,” she says. The whiskey is cool but feels bitter in your throat. You excuse yourself to your room while your friends celebrate, their laughter and joy muted through the walls while you lay pensive on your bed. After a while there's a soft knock on your door and Cameron slowly peaks inside. “You alright, Derek?” He asks. You are, maybe, you think, so you nod your head. Cameron comes into the room and shuts the door behind him, sitting on the bed and placing a hand on your back.

“I'm just scared I guess. Scared I'm not actually ready for this.” You barely speak at all, a whisper so quiet that even muffled through the walls Jacques and Fäde nearly drown it out. “You think we aren't scared?” Cam asks. You aren't sure so you don't answer. “This is huge, Derek. We're all terrified. But this is what we've been working towards. This is what you've put so much effort into getting better for. And you are. I can see it in your eyes that you're stronger and happier than when we started. You've come a long way, Der. Just believe in yourself. Believe in us.” You grab his elbow and tug, gently. He lays down behind you on the bed and wraps himself around you while you shake apart in fear. He holds you until you calm down and then he still doesn't let go. “I love you,” you say. He kisses the back of your head and holds you tighter. “I love you too,” he says, and you fall asleep.

The next morning- Emily was right about it being early but bright may have been out of place as a description of the dark drive at half past five- the four of you walk into Interrobang's office. As promised, Interrobang casually mentioned a new act on twitter and speculation reached a fever pitch by midnight. Meanwhile, Fool's Gold's social media has been beleaguered by fans questioning your sudden lack of performances. So far, it seems, no one has connected the dots but you worry that it's only a matter of time. Davis, Emily, and a young woman whom you've never met are sitting in the boardroom and the four of you take seats across from them. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Samantha Becker, our PR expert. Her job is to help you all with marketing, interview prep, and promotion.” Davis says, gesturing to the stranger. Samantha looks very young, certainly younger than Fäde and Jacques, and very striking. “Good morning boys, I hope you don't mind the early call time because this will be our normal for the next couple weeks. I have five days to prepare you for pre-stardom. I know a lot of it may seem like common sense but interviews can be overwhelming, especially an entire press tour before you're even touring as artists.”

_'Businessmen drink my blood / Like the kids in art school said they would / And I guess I'll just begin again / You say you, can we still be friends?'_

You have more meetings, training and pitches and planning and more pitches and edits. It's nice, having things to do again to keep you from spiraling, and working on your career only pushes you further. You know you have this support system; Cameron, Fäde, Jacques; Emily, Davis, Samantha and the team at Interrobang; your family, even, and you're convinced at this moment that you could take over the world.

Your eyes snap open but only see darkness. Your phone is ringing incessantly and blindly you reach over for it. Next to you, Cameron groans and tries to bury his head in the pillow. You finally find it, answer, seeing the time is only 3:30am. “'lo” you mumble, rubbing your had across your eyes. “Derek. Thank God, it's my mom. Lizzie called and said she's been in an accident and they don't know how bad. We have to go.” Casey is hysterical, her explanation full of sobs and long moments of her trying to breathe through her panic. You're up in a second, pulling on your underwear and sweats with the phone caught between your ear and shoulder. Cameron's awake, trying to figure out what's going on while you try to get Casey to calm down. “I'll be there as soon as I can Case, I'll pick you up. Don't worry. I'm sure it's fine.” She hangs up, begging you to hurry, and you turn to Cameron. “My step mom was in an accident. I have to get Casey and go home.” His eyes widen in concern, hearing the anxiety creep into your voice. “How bad is it?” He asks, and you can only shrug. “We don't know yet. I really have to go right now,” you say, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple and then his lips. “Please call Davis, let him know what's happening. You guys should still go though, see if you can't figure out the solo in Perennials while I'm out. I'll call you when I get there and let you know what's up. I love you.”

You're out the door before he can respond, the blind terror in Casey's voice and your heart thudding loud in your ears propelling you into the Prince and onto the road. The heat, on full blast, fights valiantly against the chill culling your heart; it proves to be futile as you give in to the full-body terror, racing through the dark to pick up the last girl you'd ever think would be able to drag you out of your bed.

You make it to Queen's in record time, skidding to a stop directly in front of where Casey's pacing in front of her apartment. In a second she rips open the door and throws herself in, buckling her seat belt and urging you to drive. You listen (always, always doing what she says but this isn't the time, this isn't the right time to lament on everything between you) and she never once scolds you about speeding, the pitch black giving way to the indigo and violet of morning as you pull in to the hospital, the two of you leaping out. You barely remember to lock the car, shove your hands into your pockets and follow Casey into the building. By the time you walk through the door Casey is turning away from the front desk, urging you down a hallway to the left. You follow, catch sight of your dad just as a hysteric Lizzie tackles Casey. Marti glues herself to your side as you approach, sliding under your right arm and gripping around your waist so tight it hurts. You place a hand on her shoulder, reaching out with the other to pull Edwin over to you too. George meets your eyes and looks wrecked, looks more scared than you've ever seen (and isn't that just a slap in the face, making your blood run ice, that something has managed to surpass the horror of your near-death) and he heaves a ragged sob before pulling you and your siblings into a fearful huddle.

You think about Nora's voice; her warm warm heart, the conspiratorial look she would shoot to you when the younger kids were getting out of hand; the specific tone of voice she would use when one of you were out of line that could render the entire house sheepish. She's such a strong, powerful woman that the idea of her absence leaves you feeling like a hole. When you get a moment you steal away, walking back outside and down the sidewalk away from the doors a ways before lighting up a cigarette. You hear her before you see her; hear her walking and hear her say your name. Casey meets your eyes when you turn around, looking so small and scared. She steps forward and you pull her against you, wrapping her up and hoping that your arms can tell her that it's okay because you know your mouth won't work. After a long moment she relaxes, steps back-- though not far-- and asks to bum a smoke. You know better than to argue, holding out the open pack for her to grab one and then reaching out to light it for her. She takes a deep, deep drag and exhales it raggedly. It eases her shoulders, though, and for a long while you both just stand in silence, smoking outside the hospital.

After you finish there's a moment where you both become statues, gazing into each other's eyes, feeling the turn of the earth and the weight of the sky holding you down. It breaks when she turns, walking back inside without a word, with you following in her shadow.

You detour away, once inside, needing to think and breathe for a moment. You find the cafeteria, and thinking of your sudden wake-up and the dark purple under Casey's eyes you grab two coffees. When you return a doctor is talking to the family. “-should be okay, we just have to wait for her to wake up to make sure she didn't suffer any damage to her neck.” George looks awake, prepared, and you arrive just as the doctor leaves. Casey turns, eyes glassy but not sad, and pulls you into a hug. “She's going to be okay, she just got jostled around pretty hard. Maybe whiplash but nothing horrible.” Everyone's eyes seem to be anywhere else while you embrace. She pulls back, notices the coffee, and shoots you a smile; tiny, private, lovely.

All of a sudden you feel hot and flushed, realizing the intimacy of the exchange. You raise an arm up to ruffle the hair at the back of your head, a nervous habit. The hallway somehow seems infinitely smaller, constricting around you, and you feel—again-- like you need air. You say something, mumble an excuse, and walk away. Desperate for something to do you gulp down the coffee in three swigs, drinking the dregs as you walk back out the door. You head to the left, toward a low wall, and sit down roughly. The world feels unstable around you. On a whim you pull off the lid of the cup, looking down at the grounds left behind. To you they look like a bird, wings open in flight.

You call Cam, update him on Nora's condition. “That's good,” he says, sounding tired. “I'll be back tonight. Promise. Everything's a-okay here so...” you trail off, dumbly. You don't know why but it seems like all the world's dropped out around you; like when you suddenly realize that you're dreaming in the middle and you can feel yourself waking up. After a long pause Cameron says, “I'll see you tonight then. I'm glad everything's okay.” The feeling passes when he speaks and you say, “Yeah. I'll see you soon. Bye, Cam.” He hangs up, so you slide your phone back into your pocket.

Hours later Nora is discharged. You all head back to the house, but once there, once Nora is set up in bed and all of you kids are spread across the kitchen and dining room, everyone seems rendered mute. Only Simon babbles on happily, Edwin and Lizzie and Marti sitting around the table and suddenly exhausted, you and Casey standing on opposite ends of the kitchen. It feels like a storm cloud in the room, heavy and hazy and crackling with energy. Like everyone else is just waiting for someone to break the silence so something can be discussed. It makes you feel odd, so you finally excuse yourself. “I'd better head back to Toronto,” you say. Casey's attention startles over to you, drawn away from the coffee cup she'd been exploring for the last ten minutes. “Think you can give me a ride back to Kingston?” She asks and it's the first peal of thunder in a storm that you'd rather avoid. “Sure,” you say, nodding briskly and heading to say your goodbyes to George and Nora.

_'Sometimes I can't believe it / I'm moving past the feeling'_

The drive is long and quiet, Casey staring out her window and your eyes locked firmly on the road. You chain smoke the whole way back and you can barely see her reflection grimace a couple times as you toss a butt and grab a fresh smoke. Kingston rises from the horizon like the sun. Casey perks up, stirring from a nap as you pull off the highway. “We home?” She mumbles, voice thick and syrupy in the mire of too-little sleep. The question makes your heart skip like a record. “You are, at least,” you say. Queen's isn't home anymore. Toronto isn't home either, but it's closer; at this point your home is Fool's Gold, wherever that is and however it's going, the band is your harbour. All the world just feels like the cold dark of the ocean. You pull up, another cigarette sputtering out on the street behind you. Casey sits there for a long time, seems to you to be willing herself to speak. “Thanks for the ride, Derek,” she says eventually, eyes drifting up from the dashboard to meet yours. You shrug. “Seriously,” she says. The tone of her voice, edging on anxiety, makes you linger in silence. “I know I've been kind of a bitch this year. I took a lot of stuff out on you and it wasn't fair. But you were still here for me when I needed you, and I think that means something. I think...” She becomes silent, eyes catching on the reflection of your cigarette butt-- still a flare on the street pouring out smoke desperately-- and then reaches out to grab your hand, just for a moment, before unbuckling her seat belt and sliding out of the Prince onto the sidewalk. Her eyes are still on the cigarette butt when she says, “I think maybe I was wrong about you this whole time, Derek.” She turns, doesn't wait for you to respond, closing the door and walking up to her front door. She doesn't look back at you before entering.

You still have a bit of a drive, back over to Toronto. The sky is painted crimson when you finally park, stepping out and crushing a cigarette under your heel. What Casey had said; it's transformed you into a morose haze. Brought so much back to the surface seemingly seconds after it had finally been laid to rest. You walk into the building, take the elevator, and when you walk in the boys are all sitting on the couch. They greet you warmly but your face feels made of wax, you can't make it stretch or form at all. They either don't notice or, in the case of Cameron who clearly notices, attribute it to exhaustion. You make your way to the kitchen and grab your bottle of whiskey out of the freezer, downing a few shots worth straight from the neck. Cameron tries to school himself calm, but you can tell he's been nervous all day. 

“Well, how did it go?” You ask. Jacques grins, Fäde says “little Camy here finally nailed the solo in Perennials. We just have to record all the vocal layers and it's another song down.” You grin, clap Cam on the back while he grimaces at Fäde, says, “don't call me Camy.” All he earns for his trouble is a round of boisterous laughter. All your life you've been surrounded by ghosts, maybe you've been the ghost all along, but being here with your boys, with your band, you feel the warm white light.

Later, surrounded by the dark of night, you're laying in bed with Cam. He's still panting, sweat-slick and flushed. You twist your head, kissing his temple, and he sighs contented and wraps himself around you. “So how did it go,” he asks eventually and despite yourself you smile. “Good. Nora just got banged up a bit. Casey... everyone... was really scared. I'm glad it wasn't too bad.” He sighs, a soft hum, as he smiles against your shoulder. “I'm glad,” he says, and you fall asleep with his breaths on your neck.

Fool's Gold is fully realized, the album being molded quickly out of a quiet desperation on your part to get the shit out. A few weeks into the recording Davis calls you all into a meeting. Concern is written on his face and Emily looks carefully neutral. “Boys, we've been talking with miss Becker and the rest of our creative team. We're a little... concerned. That the material we've been working on may be too... dark for a debut. Escapism is a fantastic record, just maybe not for an introduction.” You're shocked, confused. It's been weeks since you began recording and the material hasn't changed at all. Before you can even react Jacques says, “Bauhaus first single, Bela Lugosi's Dead, is darker than anything we've written and it not only launched their career but gave a foundation upon which the entire Goth genre was built. This album is dark because we wrote it during a dark time. With all due respect, sir, I think you're underestimating your entire audience and outright dismissing decades worth of musical precedent. Besides, it's almost done, and I'd hate for the label to see an even lengthier gap in their return.” Davis regards him coolly, Emily looks surprised (obviously did no research, Jacques is no stranger to the business side of the industry.) “Perhaps you're right, it all depends on the direction you intend to go in.” He doesn't seem convinced and you know you should say something. “Escapism is about what we've been through, so changing it based on like, _marketing research_ seems a little inauthentic.” Cameron says and Fäde nods in agreement. “What do you think, Derek?” Cam says and all eyes turn to you. “I think Fool's Gold is dark. I think that we, as a group, want to make music about the sad stuff now so we can get to the happy stuff when we are more happy. It's never gonna seem relatable or real if it isn't the material we wrote to be this album. I think... I think the stress of ditching this therapeutic material would be bad for me.”

Emily looks down to study the woodgrain but Davis' eyes never leave yours until he regards all of you together with a tight smile thin on his face. “All right boys, you win this one. We'll move forward with Escapism as written, because Jacques is correct, scrapping the whole thing would be too big of a setback at this point.” The other three grin but you still feel uncomfortable, disquieted by the label's willingness to mold Fool's Gold into what they want instead of trusting you as musicians to put together your own record.

_'If I could just keep my stupid mind together / Then my thoughts would cross the land for you to see'_

Three weeks and many, many hours of work later, Escapism is recorded in full. It's sent off to be mixed and edited and finalized, and in the mean time Interrobang's announcement has inundated the band's social media with attention. You're sitting up in bed with Cameron, you writing lyrics down in a fire of inspiration while he lounges and updates the band's accounts. All of a sudden he laughs, says, “listen to this Der.” You turn away from the notebook and he continues, reading from an article,

“Indie label takes a chance on four college kids from Queens: If you'd told me two weeks ago what direction the still-young-but-critically-acclaimed indie label Interrobang would go in with their next artists, and said 'collegiate punk with a distinctly emo vibe' I might have laughed. Regardless, Interrobang continued to surprise when they picked up a foursome out of Ontario known in Kingston as 'that band that couldn't pick a name' but billed in the announcement as Fool's Gold. Locals describe their live shows as “electric, eccentric, and eclectic,” citing Kingston's The Horseshoe Cafe as the band's stomping ground. “I saw them like six times,” local Queen's student Louisa Brown said, “and they just kept getting better. I'm so excited Kingston is getting some attention and I can't wait for their album.” So far, the enigmatic Davis (founder and co-owner of Interrobang ‽ Records) has kept a tight lid on a release date, but has teased that Fool's Gold's debut album is nearly complete and will be released within the year. Online conversation about the band has lent comparisons to Quebec's Arcade Fire, Australia's Miami Horror, and even French duo Air (known for contributing the soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides film from 1999.) With such varied comparisons, this magazine looks forward to checking out the mine for ourselves.”

Cameron gives you a wide-eyed grin, looking manic “Do you know where I found the article?” He asks, excitedly. “It's from goddamn Under The Radar! That's big press, Derek!” His joy is infectious, soon the two of you are laughing and holding each other, near tears. He retweets the article and the two of you make out over the music of his phone going off repeatedly.

After you've returned to writing your phone breaks the silence, ringing. You answer without checking the ID but you're not surprised at all when Casey says, “hey D. I was hoping we could talk if you weren't busy.” You grunt out a response, pull the phone aside to answer Cam's questioning look by mouthing 'it's Casey' and receiving an eye roll. You grab a joint and head out onto the veranda, sitting in a deck chair and lighting it up. “What's up, Case?” You ask and she sighs heavily. “Wanted to congratulate you. I read about the label, must be exciting.” You don't respond, calling her bluff, and she laughs a bit. “Alright. I just keep thinking about everything. How much I fucked everything up. I just wanted to let you know that I meant what I said when you dropped me off. I think I've been wrong about you. I just...” She dissolves into silence, into the static across the phones, but you aren't sure what to say. It feels precarious, feels somehow like this moment is important and you're paralyzed with the fear of making things worse. “I'm just happy for you,” she says after too long. “Thanks,” you reply, and she sucks in a breath that sounds too watery for your liking. “I don't hate you, Case,” you say, “I'm not mad at you.” The static drags on, until your joint burns your fingers and your lips and you put it out and hang up.


	11. LOVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy bass thunders through your chest. All the light in the world is a flashing garish kaleidoscope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Here is, finally, the penultimate chapter. We are in the home stretch. Again, thank you to everyone reading this, everyone who stuck through the large gaps between chapters. In the words of Fall Out Boy, "Welcome! It's here!"
> 
> Songs quoted are Counting Days by Wild Nothing; The Suburbs (continued) by Arcade Fire; Real Slow by Miami Horror; and Flashbulb Eyes by Arcade Fire.

Heavy bass thunders through your chest. All the light in the world is a flashing garish kaleidoscope and Cameron is a searing light, burning where he's pressed against your right side. The club is tight and hot hot hot, whiskey flowing through your veins and flushing your cheeks. Fäde is here, somewhere, Jacques was at the bar chatting up a girl minutes ago but seems to have disappeared since you last looked over. All you're aware of is the solid weight of Cam at your side, the pounding weight of the music, and the frenzy of the crowd while they move and you move with them, caught up in a hundred wakes and tides and currents. Cameron says something against your ear but you don't catch a word. His hand grips your chin and turns you to blearily smile at him. Wanna go smoke he mouths, the bass stealing the noise right out of his mouth. You nod, grab onto one of his belt loops and let him lead you towards the door (always following, always following, you've replaced the leader but not the need) and the fresh air hits you like a wall. The music muffles as the door slams behind you, the doorman sparing a glance before Cam leads you off to the side and out of the way of the long line. You may not get back in, may be out here a long time before Jacques and Fäde reappear, but you don't mind. Cameron lights up two cigarettes and hands you one.

It isn't cold out but compared to the inferno inside the club the summer night makes you shiver regardless. Cam smiles, tugging you closer and teasing his lips against your ear, whispering, “wanna get out of here?” You're drunk enough to momentarily consider saying no, wanting to return to the crowd and the music loud enough you don't have to think. “Let's go,” you say, quiet. You take lead, grabbing his hand and pulling him down along the sidewalk towards home, needing to sober up and not wanting to risk a cab. Cam sends a text, to one of the boys at least, telling them to make it home safe.

Out here, near enough alone on the streets downtown, the quiet smothers you. You realize belatedly that your hand is a vice on Cameron's, relenting and giving him a sheepish look. He just shrugs and moves his arm up to wrap around your waist instead. “What's going on in that head of yours?” He asks and you think you flinch, Cam broaching the exact topic you were desperate to avoid. “I just think... I think too much. It's easier when I'm distracted.” Cameron doesn't look over, just tightens his arm around you, says, “well let's hurry home so I can distract you.”

_'Counting days til you come in / I haven't lost you just misplaced you / However bright I could not tell'_

Cameron's face has become the sun; filling your vision as he pants above you. The sweat on his skin glistens in the soft orange light of the city. You groan, pulling him tighter against you with your nails like claws in his back, his hips snapping a frantic rhythm and making you screw your eyes shut tight. His mouth crashes down on yours, swallowing up your moans and sighs.

The walk back sobered you up enough to gain control of yourself, but not so much that you lost your drunken bravado. It's been a while since you've let anyone in, been in this position, but the weight of Cam over you fools you into feeling safe and happy. He collapses onto your chest and heaves a heavy sigh, kissing his way up your neck and meeting your lips while he strips off the condom and ties it blindly, tossing it vaguely towards the trash. “Fuck, Cam.” You say and he huffs a laugh, says, “we just did.” You roll your eyes, kiss him again. “I love you,” you say-- honest enough that it terrifies you-- and his grin flashes bright in the dark. “I know.” He says, cracking up at your scandalized expression. “Excuse me! I am _not_ Leia. Don't Solo me!”

An hour later you're both out in the kitchen, sweats dangling from your hips and Cam wrapped up in his blanket, eating grilled cheese. The door bangs open suddenly and Jacques and Fäde stumble in, leaning against each other but failing to balance and spilling into a laughing pile in the doorway. Cameron wraps his blanket tighter around himself and walks over to them, forcing sandwiches into their hands. “Thanks Camy,” Jacques says and Cam nudges him with his foot in response, crossing the room back to you. It's late, beyond late, and the two of you leave Jacques and Fäde on the floor, heading back to your room and falling into bed together again.

Tomorrow you will all head back home, given a few weeks to relax and be with family before the album is done and the press begins. It's a prospect that would have terrified you before; you'd been scared when you left for Queen's, scared enough not to return for a full year; you'd been scared every time you'd gone back; and yeah, you're scared now-- scared to walk away from Cameron while you've just seemed to figure out how you fit together again and scared to deal with the tension among your siblings and scared every damn time you think about Casey-- but it's a tempered sort of fear, like the anxiety for a test that you know you studied for. No matter how prepared you are there's always the anxiety that you'll get there and have studied the wrong subject entirely somehow; brain full of history and a test paper full of calculus.

You tell Cameron how nervous you are, do your best to explain why, but he seems puzzled. “Why are you so afraid of your family?” He asks and it's wrong, the wrong question at the wrong time. “I'm afraid of myself... or... who I used to be,” you answer, stilted and sleepy in his arms. He hums, a comforting sound, and pulls you closer still. “You'll be fine, Derek. And I'm only a phone call away.”

_'If I could have it back / All the time that we wasted / I'd only waste it again / If I could have it back'_

The house hasn't changed any, still the same driveway and walls and paint and windows. The kitchen window is open and you can smell bacon frying, can almost hear the crackle where you're standing on the sidewalk. A car pulls up along behind you, but you don't turn. Someone steps out, stretching in your periphery, pulling a suitcase out of the backseat and tapping the hood of the car once the door is closed. She stands there, beside you in the bright spring morning for a long time before clapping a hand on your shoulder. “It's weird, isn't it?” You ask, still staring up at the house. “Yeah,” she agrees quietly a moment later. Eventually, your feet remember their purpose, and together you walk up the driveway and into the house.

It isn't until later that night, you and Edwin and Casey and Lizzie sitting out in the back yard, that you even think to wonder why Casey's at home. She certainly didn't take the summer off last year, but then again last year you both may as well have been different people. “So what brings you home this fine summer, Case?” You ask, a practiced ease sloppily layered over months of uncertain ground. Lizzie and Edwin go quiet, regarding Casey earnestly. Her face slides into an easy grin. “I just missed my family,” she says, quietly, not wanting to disquiet the nighttime peace.

All sense of time discandies, as it does so often during summertime, and days blend together into a week. Cameron is thrilled that things are going so well, his daily calls filled with the muted joy of days on the shore and children splashing in the sea, his voice light like the breeze off the water. You feel free in a way you haven't since you were a child, the summer setting in, and you can feel that slow growth; the sprout in your heart blooming wide and vibrant- a single rose; a spray of lilies.

The night grows darker and colder until Edwin and Lizzie get ushered inside to bed. It's just you and her, in the backyard where just months ago you'd thrown everything away for a quick fuck. It hits you in odd sorts of waves; a feeling of regret, a feeling of fear, a feeling of peace, a feeling of absolute abject love. Neither of you breaks the silence for a long time, the moment stretching on and on in front of you.

“Did you think we'd be here again? Half a year later, sitting in the same chairs?” Casey asks, destroying any illusion you'd had of avoiding the mistake you'd made (and the mistakes before that, a long line of error stretching on and on and on and on as far back as you can remember) and snapping your attention over to the silhouette of her pretty face in the shadows. “Not in a million years.” You reply, and it seems to sate her curiosity because it grows quiet again. 

There's another long pause, pregnant and fat-full of the hundreds of things that you and Casey will probably never talk about. The night is cool, but not cold; you shiver, regardless, in the dark. “I've been really afraid,” she says suddenly, “to see you again. But then with my mom... when I needed you, you were there no questions asked. You're a lot different.”

Impossibly, you're growing rather tired of being told that you're better, that your problems are fixed, that you've achieved some sort of fixed goal and that now things are okay. Because to you they still don't feel okay. You know that you are better-- and God are you thankful for it-- but you feel like a sprinter being celebrated yards before the finish line; you know that your journey is far from over.

“I'll get there,” you whisper, standing and walking into the house to go to sleep.

_'Oh, We can take our time now that I know / This time'_

Early the next afternoon, while you're drinking your third cup of coffee and laughing while Edwin and Lizzie argue over the remote, Marti tugs at your sleeve. “I've got something for you Smerek,” she says. You follow her up to her room, see an easel with a sheet over the painting. “Oh!” You say, “did you finally finish something?” Marti grimaces, shrugs. “I don't know if it's done, but it's time for you to have it.” She reaches over, gripping the sheet and eyes you wearily. She pulls it off before she can talk herself out of it and for a while you stare at the painting before you really see it. The canvas is a soft-focus ethereal field of peach and cream and frosty steel. It's a hallway in the hospital, seen through an unfocused lens, looking like a dream. In the center of the frame Casey and you stand, eyes wide in relief, her arms wrapped loose around your shoulders and her face a summer rain. Marti has obviously spent a lot of time on you and Casey, lovingly rendered and amazingly careful. Your face is flushed rose and the corners of your lips are tipped up small and shy. Casey's eyes are on you, and yours are on her. You both look happy and relieved and exhausted. It's beautiful.

You aren't sure if you can bring yourself to speak but Marti is looking so shy and unsure that you have to choke out, “Marti, it's beautiful.” She blushes, turns away with a carefully practiced cool to say, “ugh don't get all sappy Smerek.” You can't help it though, and she doesn't try to fight when you pull her in for a crushing hug. “I wanted you to see what I see. Like, you need to know that you're okay. Not better, not complete, not a new person, but you're okay. And you and Casey are okay, and you love each other and it's okay. You just need to fucking relax, Derek.” She says, sounding so wise and old that you have no choice but to believe her. “Thanks, Marti.” You say, frightfully close to tears, and your tone must scare her because she ushers you out of her room and calls you a crybaby before stifling a sob with the closing of her door.

It makes you remember all of the things that have changed; makes you remember Fool's Gold and Davis and how Emily had only called you because of Casey, makes you remember Cameron's face broken open in hurt, makes you remember him bright and shining and smiling the first day you'd met; makes you remember when you and Casey first met and her shy smile and the way you'd scoffed, the stark shine of blood from your wrist and the bright glimmer of gold over the scars. You feel like all your life has been a winter but now, now it's finally spring and the garden has come back to life and the sun has returned and the rains pool reflective in the streetlights and the future has come home to meet you half way. The rest of the day a grin lives in your mouth and as you lay down to sleep your cheeks hurt.

You go out the next day, spend the afternoon in town with Marti and Edwin and take them out to lunch. Ed regales you with tales of his adventures in a public school system that he outgrew years ago. Marti rolls her eyes, calls him a nerd. He squawks, scandalized, and the three of you share a laugh. You're suspicious when she tries to casually direct you back home, but you're still surprised when you walk through the door.

“What's all this?” You ask, viewing your gathered family with suspicion. Nora smiles, gestures to the table all stuffed with food and done up like a party, says, “well we know it isn't quite your birthday yet, but you'll be so busy what with press and fame and everything. We thought we'd get it out of the way now, while we're all here.” What she means is: I love you; We love you; We support you; I was afraid I wouldn't get to be there; We have all been afraid that you might not be here. You smile, so wide that it must look comical or cartoonish, but your dad looks proud and sturdy and the table is full of every food you love, and Marti is hugging you. You smile, but what you mean is: I've never been so happy in my life.

_'Hit me with your flashbulb eyes! / You know I've got nothing to hide / You know I've got nothing'_

Fool's Gold really, officially, begins the day of your first radio interview. The release date has been set for January; the album was conceived in winter and it will be born in winter; the cold and dark seemed fitting for a distant and moody album like Escapism. In the months between completion and release Davis has been meeting with the four of you much more often; Samantha Becker's expertise proved invaluable but Davis' advice is more practical. The vague interviews you'd been doing with magazines throughout the summer had all been straightforward, asking about the band and the name and the members and begging for inside scoops on the mysterious album. This, though, the soundproof room and the interviewer-- someone whose voice you've listened to countless times interviewing bands you love-- this is truly the beginning.

“So,” the young lady begins after her introduction, “Fool's Gold is the name on everybody's lips and I've got you here! It's an honor!” Cam blushes, waves her off. “It's an honor to be here,” he says and Jacques and Fäde echo the sentiment. “Now we've all read a lot about the band these last few months but just for listeners who aren't familiar; You all met at Queen's University, is that right?” Fäde laughs, says “actually I met Jacques a few years ago through mutual friends. I hadn't heard from him in months when he suddenly showed up with a band.” The interviewer laughs, charmed by his easy wit and confident demeanor. “But that's where Fool's Gold started?” She asks and you nod, remembering you're on radio and laughing, say, “yeah.”

“Derek, you're typically quiet in interviews, but from what the fans in Kingston say you're quite the animal on stage. Are you actually shy, or wild?” You shift, a bit uncomfortable, and Cam slips his hand into yours. As the interviewer's eyes rest on your interlocked fingers you find your voice, “uh, yeah I guess. I'm a bit more laid back. I've actually been a bit not myself for a while.” She nods, gestures for you to go on but you falter. “Would you say that Escapism reflects that? Were you out of sorts recording it?” You're feeling almost overwhelmed but in a quiet way. Cam says, “I think we wrote Escapism about a certain time, or a certain mood in everyone's life. We didn't want to start out happy and cheerful if it wasn't where we were, you know? I'd definitely say that the album is moody-” “Moody, yeah,” you add quietly. “-there's darkness but there's always some light, too.” She seems pleased, still glancing at where you and Cam are connected. “I'd read that Cameron and Derek are the main lyricists, Jacques, would you say that's accurate? Will you and Fäde be writing on the next record?”

It strikes you, then, that a sophomore album is all but guaranteed (Davis already urging you and Cam not to stop writing, to get out as much material as you can) but you aren't even sure of your own process; you don't know how Escapism came out so quickly, are concerned you won't be able to replicate it.

“Definitely I would say that Derek and Cam took the lead on writing. They just fell into this natural partnership and I love all the songs they wrote. I'd like to hope that we can write some, fingers crossed we get a second album to try it out.” Jacques says, and you nod emphatically. “I'd love to see them write. I really didn't want this to ever be like, 'Derek and the Band' you know? Like, they voted for me to be the singer but all of these songs are all of us, together. I hope I get to sing some of their stuff some day. I want us all to write the next one together. Maybe it'll be happier?” You aim for humor at the end but it comes across too flatly honest to garner a laugh. She seems pleased, regardless. She gestures between you and Cam, mouths 'can we talk about this?' and you exchange a look with him. He shrugs, so you nod. “Okay so, bit of an elephant in the room, Derek and Cam. Jacques said you feel into a natural partnership but you seem awfully close, does the partnership extend beyond art?” You look to Cam and you're spellbound by his natural ease. “Definitely. Derek and I got really close working on this album. We've been dating for a while. It's really cool,” he says, “getting to work on music with someone that you're really passionate about. I feel like I really got to know Derek in the months we've been working more than the year that we knew each other before that.” You laugh, say, “me too. I think I've learned more about myself this year than in my whole life.” It's the truth.

“Well, I think we should end this on that positive note, I love leaving the conversation on love, don't you? As a special surprise treat for the audience we have an exclusive! Interrobang sent over part of the lead single from Escapism. Ladies and gents, here is a teaser from Perennials by Fool's Gold.”


	12. HOPE III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room is huge, a banquet hall with vaulted ceilings and huge, story-tall windows lining one wall and looking out over Lake Ontario.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. 97 pages and 1.5 years later and I've officially finished up the longest piece of writing in my life. I'm so thankful to everyone whose been reading this, for all of the encouraging comments and patience while I struggled to get this out. I hope you loved this adventure half as much as I did. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> Songs quoted are Teardrop by Massive Attack, It Could Be Sweet by Portishead, and All I Need by Air

_Teardrop on the fire / Fearless on my breath / You're stumbling a little / You're stumbling a little'_

_“I was thinking about starting a band,” you say while you brew coffee. Casey doesn't stop reading, holds up a finger, gives herself a minute to finish, and then chuckles looking at you. “You were what now?” She asks, and you roll your eyes. It seems almost like a reprieve, like a momentary grace. You repeat yourself. Casey laughs and then, her eyes a dare, she says, “do it.”_

The room is huge, a banquet hall with vaulted ceilings and huge, story-tall windows lining one wall and looking out over Lake Ontario. The waters are calm, painted navy in the night. The stars are out and fairy lights high above make the champagne in your glass twinkle as it swirls. You're sitting at a long table, eyes on people mingling; people who make more money a year than you've seen in your life; industry professionals and the other acts from Interrobang's roster. You twist your gaze, searching out Cam, and when you find him his eyes are already on you while Davis and the bass player from Je Ne Sais laugh at something he'd said. He excuses himself, making his way through the huge party to your side. “You doing alright Der?” He asks and you shrug. It's odd and frightening that your album drops at midnight, just hours away, that your soul will be released into the hands of the public to scrutinize. “Don't worry, babe. We're all good. Everyone's gonna love it.” You shrug again, unsure of what to say. You aren't even worried about the reaction; you're anxious because you've never felt comfortable being wholly honest and exposed in front of people but that's exactly what you'd done while writing-- expose the flushed blood-beat center of your chest and pour it out.

“Come with me,” Cam says and you have no choice, don't want to be alone anyway. You make your way outside, walking a few feet to look out over the placid water of the lake. The moon is bright and full, the water glimmering like millions of sapphires. “What do you see out there?” He asks and you look out, across the infinite water and towards the other shore. You imagine you can see New York. Imagine that you can see love and comfort and warmth. “America,” you answer flatly and Cameron bumps his shoulder against yours. “The future,” he says, “is on the horizon line. It's here, Derek. We've done it. Together.”

He's more right than he knows; you couldn't have done any of this without him. You tell him this and he levels you with an intense stare. “After you I'm no longer me from before / the arc of romance is short and bends toward us.” He sings, quoting one of the songs you'd written together. You meet his eyes and feel a smile growing in your heart. “Our love is a center point, center point,” you continue. He throws his head back in laughter, tucks himself under your arm while you smoke and look out over the water. “Hey,” someone says and you know without looking that it's Casey, invited as Emily's plus one, finding you out here looking across the lake. She walks up, places herself on your other side and you nudge her shoulder, say, “hey.” She smiles, small, and looks across the lake too. The three of you standing like statues in the night, muffled music and peachy lights filtering through the windows behind you. “Congrats,” Casey says after a pause. “I can't wait to hear it.”

A breeze whips up past you and over the water. You feel solid; you feel made of gold; you feel like running away; you feel like running home; you feel like never looking back, like never even thinking about the sad and angry boy you used to be.

Casey makes her way back in to the party to find Emily. You and Cam stand, silent and content and watching the waves. You keep smoking, lighting a few cigarettes, and eventually Cameron heads in to find Jacques, to make sure Fäde isn't getting into trouble. You stay, though, looking at the horizon like you're waiting for the sun to rise.

_'I don't want to hurt you / For no reason have I but fear / And I ain't guilty of the crimes you accuse me of / but I'm guilty of fear'_

You go back in, knowing that midnight is nearing and you'll be expected to attend your own album launch. Immediately you seek out Cam, joining him and the boys at the table with Emily and the rest of the Interrobang team. Davis is giving a speech, leading up to the launch, and you sit through your discomfort, gripping Cam's hand.

“Ever since the announcement that we had signed a new act, everyone around me has had questions. 'Who are they? What are they like? How did you find them?' Well, I didn't find them. My daughter did. But after she sent me some demo tracks I wasn't convinced. It wasn't until her friend came to see me, brought a video of these four boys playing live that I became interested; and then she brought me to see them live. I never told them this, but I was in the audience for two of their shows in Kingston, and seeing them up there... how naturally they fit together and how talented they were, and how much love they had for music... I knew they were going to make it with or without me, so I knew I had to attach myself to them. These four boys had more courage than I'd ever had. 

Once we told everyone who they were, and they started doing interviews, the questions changed. My own team asking me, 'Are you sure they're ready? Why these boys? Where are they going to fit in today's market?' but I knew that was a failing on my own part, that it was a failing on all of us label owners. We've been underestimating the audience for decades. If we thought that every act we signed had to fit into an established sound we would never have had such visionary artists as Pink Floyd, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, or even Bauhaus. There is room in the world for every artistic vision, and Fool's Gold has an abundance of that particular resource. I am proud to include them in my label, and I see a bright future ahead. Ladies and gentleman, on this January night, I want to welcome you all to Escapism.”

The album plays and the audience loves it and the party continues. It feels like a weight, lifted away from you. It feels like Sisyphus finally reaching the top of that hill. Like Lot leaving Sodom behind. It feels like healing. You are here, in this moment, and Fäde and Jacques and Cameron are here with you. Casey wraps you in a hug and you hug her back with no fear, and you kiss Cameron and pull in every part of this moment that you can into your heart. “Escapism, huh? Sounds familiar,” Casey teases and you just nod, emphatically. It's your words but Casey was the catalyst behind all of it, behind Cameron and the band and the label so of course, of course you used her title. Of course you'd thought back to that moment in the park, drunk off of cheap beer and feeling like you would never love anyone like her. Maybe you will, maybe you do, but there will always be that fond place in your memory; burned in bright and soft with nostalgia, the fondness for Casey and the regret for everything you've ever pushed away. You've never lived in haunted houses. You've never been a ghost. You're here, you're here, and you're alive and it's beautiful and painful and so so loud. You're here. And God, you will see such pretty things.

EPILOGUE:

_'All in all there's something to give / All in all there's something to do / All in all there's something to live / With you'_

You wake up to a series of loud knocks on the door. You get up, pulling on sweats, while Cameron sits up sleepily. You open the door and it's Fäde, Jacques in tow, a wide and manic grin splitting both of their faces. Fäde pulls a magazine out of a plastic bag, and his grin grows impossibly wider. “We're in fucking AP, boys,” he says and Cam instantly seems to snap awake. Fäde opens to a page he'd already folded in, clears his throat and starts reading.

“Four Boys Against The World: Canada's newest submission to the indie scene, Fool's Gold, write music for anyone who has ever given in to melancholy and nostalgia. In the months since the foursome from Kingston, Ontario released their debut effort Escapism, it's been difficult not to fall in love with the shoegaze-slanted moody tracks. The first single, Perennials, calls to mind Echo and the Bunnymen, flavoured with a distinctly 80's goth influence. Drummer Fäde Weber from Berlin, is a wall of steady sound that the guitars (Jacques Lee Cote, electric, and Cameron Dullier, bass) build and bounce off of like a band after a long career together. Fans of the varied vocals on the album need look no further than London's own Derek Venturi, whose lyrics near absurd introspection but never quite cross the line into whiny, self-flagellatory indulgence. Something about this foursome's raw quality lead you to believe every word and note they perform. When Venturi sings, “you were the cold snap, but I was the forest, buried alive but, alive alive alive underneath” you feel every word, know every note before he even sings it. All of us have been through hard times so all of us can relate to an album about hard times. With poetic lyrics, technically strong performances, and an energy that has to be seen to be believed, this reviewer has no doubt that Fool's Gold will be a part of our collections for a long time.”

“With that said, boys, I think it's about time to get to work on our sophomore effort.” He says, closing the magazine and jumping onto your bed, the four of you piling together in love and laughter, and you take such delight in the simple, full feeling in your heart that you open up your mouth and sing. And you never shut up.


End file.
